The Kadin

by Bertrice Small

  Khurrem fell on her knees and, catching the valideh’s hand, kissed it fervently. “Go,” said Cyra, pulling her hand away. Allah in His Paradise, the girl made her feel old! Power was a marvelous toy, and she thoroughly enjoyed it, but at times like these a longing for the hills of her native land reared its head in a way she had never felt before.

  At a few minutes to ten o’clock that evening, Cyra Hafise was leaving her apartments when there came a terrible wailing sound. The startled valideh sent a eunuch to discover the source of the appalling noise. He returned to say that Gulbehar, garbed in black, had locked herself in her bedchamber and was now weeping.

  Cyra frowned angrily. “She should be beaten, but I suppose that would only worsen things.” She turned to the eunuch. “Break the door to Gulbehar’s bedchamber open, and bind and gag her.”

  The eunuch nodded and hurried to carry out the valideh’s orders. He had been in the harem a long time and knew the customs surrounding the sultan’s romantic liaisons. Every door and window in the harem must be shut. Only the way from the favorite lady’s chamber to the sultan’s apartment was left open. Above all, there must be silence. Nothing must distract Suleiman and his chosen one from their pleasure.

  Shortly afterward, Cyra entered Khurrem’s chamber and, drawing from her pocket a necklace of golden flowers studded with tiny pink diamond chips, fastened it about the surprised girl’s neck.

  “Madam,” whispered Khurrem, “it is beautiful.”

  “Its owner far outshines it” replied the valideh.

  She stood while her charge was placed in the golden litter, and, escorting it to the doors of her son’s quarters, said to the Russian, “May you know only joy, my daughter.” The Utter entered, and the doors to the sultan’s suite closed.

  Returning to her own quarters, Cyra stopped at Gulbehar’s apartments. The kadin’s attendants, huddled around the tiled corner stove, turned frightened faces to the sultan’s mother. The valideh entered the bedroom and stood for a minute, staring down at the younger woman.

  “Cut her bonds,” she commanded the kadin’s eunuch, “and remove the gag.”

  Gulbehar sat up and began to rub her wrists.

  “Khurrem is now with her lord and master,” began the valideh.

  Gulbehar shrieked wildly.

  Cyra raised her hand and slapped the girl. “Be silent!” She turned to the eunuch. “Leave us. I will speak with Gulbehar Kadin alone.” She turned to the girl, “Control yourself! Khurrem is now a fact Face it!”

  Gulbehar’s voice was low. “I am lost.”

  Cyra was becoming more annoyed as the minutes slipped by. “You are still the sultan’s bas-kadin and mother of his heir,” she snapped. ‘This day you have behaved disgracefully, and you have failed in your duties. Khurrem is but the first of my son’s harem to grace his couch. There will be others, but no matter the number, it is your son who will follow my son—may Allah grant that be many years hence.”

  “Ah, my mother,” replied Gulbehar sadly, “do you think I would have objected to my lord’s taking another woman to his couch if he had made the choice himself?”

  “But he did make the choice. From his entire harem he singled out Khurrem,”

  “No. You chose her. You placed her strategically, and trained her, and favored her. How little you know this man who is your son. For eleven years I have held him, and I knew be was bored with me, though his fondness for me would never diminish. Soon he would have chosen another maiden to share his bed, and I would have rejoiced that he found joy. But you have given him a viper. Khurrem is ambitious and cruel. She will never be satisfied with being merely the second kadin.”

  “How can you say that Khurrem is cruel? Ambitious, I know, but certainly not cruel.”

  “Your spies have obviously not told you of what your protégée did to the keeper of the linens. When Khurrem became a guzdeh, she had her eunuch force Cervi to kneel before her, and then she placed her foot upon the woman’s neck. This was not cruel?”

  Cyra had not known of this incident but pretended she did. “A childish prank,” she said.

  “Khurrem will try to destroy us all,” repeated Gulbehar.

  “Bah! I am mistress here, and I promise you that she will not harm you or your little Mustafa.”

  The morning following the Russian’s first visit to her lord, Cyra joined her pupil for coffee, and was thus there when the sultan’s gifts arrived. Wrapped in a handkerchief of gold-embroidered cloth with diamonds and rubies, they were outrageously extravagant. By tradition, Suleiman should have included among his gifts one bag of gold coins. He sent two. There was a sapphire the size of an apricot that hung from a thin gold chain, a necklace and earrings of deep-purple amethysts, a book of Persian love poems, a nightingale in a silver cage, and a small guitar covered in gold leaf and studded with pearls and turquoises.

  Several weeks later, Khurrem announced to Cyra that she was with child. Remembering her conversation with Gulbehar, the sultan’s mother quietly increased her grandson’s bodyguards and added a food taster to his suite.

  As for Suleiman, he was ecstatic over the prospect of becoming a father once again. Gulbehar’s barrenness had given rise to doubts he dared not voice even to himself. He had quickly fallen under Khurrem’s spell, and was so besotted with her that he forgot all else. During the months that followed, Suleiman would not take another maiden despite Khurrem’s condition. Nor did he visit Gulbehar at night, though he often visited her suite during the day.

  Cyra was furious. “By introducing Khurrem into Suleiman’s bed, I was trying to keep him from being influenced by one woman, but he has only exchanged a soft, sweet fool for an ambitious beauty. Allah! what am I to do?”

  “This is what comes of your meddling,” scolded Marian, “but you need not fear. As long as you live, Suleiman will heed you above all others.”

  “That is small comfort, my friend. I would have him be a man as his father was. If he is influenced by his women, how long before he gives me only a mother’s respect but heeds not my words? I cannot let that happen!”

  As Khurrem became swollen with her pregnancy and less attractive to the fastidious eye of the sultan, she begged Suleiman’s permission to withdraw to the lake kiosk. With Khurrem less available, the valideh firmly reasserted her influence with her son.

  In the autumn of 1524, Khurrem presented Suleiman with their first child, a son named Selim. Eleven and a half months later, another son, Bajazet, was born to the Russian. He was followed by his sister, Mihrmah, and a third brother, Jahangir.

  With three healthy sons—young Mustafa and the little prince Selim and Bajazet—the line of Osman was assured. Little Jahangir, born sickly and a hunchback, could never become sultan, since the law forbade the anointing of a deformed man.

  However, animosity grew daily between Gulbehar and Khurrem. And as if the trouble between Suleiman’s two kadins were not enough, Cyra had another—and to her mind more serious—worry. Firousi was not well. The court physician, Alaeddin Cerdet, diagnosed a heart difficulty, complicated by a retention of fluids. If she were not taken away from her duties as kahya kadin and the constant excitement of the court, she could easily die.

  The solution was, of course, painfully simple. The valideh discussed it thoroughly with Hale and Guzel, and in the end it was decided that Firousi would leave the Eski Serai to live with Hale and her family. Riza ben Ismet, Hale’s husband warmed Cyra’s heart with his enthusiasm. Now, he told the sultan valideh, he would have three beautiful blonds in his house—his wife, his daughter, and his mother-in-law—and he would of course, be the most envied man in the empire. My lady Cyra was not to worry, either, he continued for he would personally see that Firousi Kadin followed the diet prescribed by Alaeddin Cerdet and took plenty of exercise.

  Unfortunately, Firousi was not inclined to be cooperative in this matter. “How,” she asked Cyra, her turquoise eyes flashing, “how can you send me away?”

  “How can I not? You have heard the doc
tor’s diagnosis.”

  “We have been together since the very beginning. We have never been separated since that one time you and Zuleika went to Persia with our lord Selim. When you returned we vowed never again would we be apart”

  “Zuleika is dead Dead, because I allowed her to go into a plague-infested court to nurse Hassan and Nureddin. I could have forbidden it and sent slaves, but I allowed my heart to overrule my head, and Zuleika died before her time because of my weakness. I will not allow you to the because within my heart I want you to stay. After Selim died and Suleiman made me sultan valideh, I dreamed of you and Sarina and I growing old together in peace and contentment, but how can I be content if I must worry about your health? I will not let you die, Firousi! I ask you, my dearest friend, to leave the Eski Serai and live with Hale and her family. But if you will not go voluntarily, I shall order it in my capacity as sultan valideh. I will not let you die! I will not!”

  Firousi stared in amazement at Cyra, She had rarely seen her friend cry in all the years they had been together, but now the tears were pouring down Cyra’s cheeks. Wordlessly, she clasped Cyra to her bosom and, sighing deeply, said simply, “I shall go.”

  The sultan’s troubles with the women in his family increased. His brother-in-law Ferhad Pasha was recalled from Syria for misuse of his power. He had used his position to execute several personal enemies. Suleiman, like Selim, scrupulously upheld the law, and so Ferhad was dismissed and retired to his estates along the sea.

  The valideh, ever watchful of her son’s best interests, knew that the dashing Ferhad Pasha would not stay quiet long. She argued fiercely for the pasha’s reinstatement “He has a well of energy. It is better that that energy work for us, not against us. You cannot expect the wild horse to pull the plow. It is better to turn him loose among our enemies and cause confusion.”

  Suleiman was reluctant. “My instinct tells me that Ferhad is hungry for, yet corrupted by, power. If I trust him again, he will betray me again.”

  “As Allah wills it” replied Cyra. “But should this happen, you will execute him, and who will say you have done wrong? In the meantime, you must think of your sister Mihri-Chan. Is this how you would treat her now that she is finally with child?”

  “I did not know. Very well, I will reassign Ferhad for the sake of my sister and their unborn son, but only to a small post somewhere in his homeland along the Danube. If he does well and there is no repetition of his old tricks, I shall restore him completely. However, Mihri-Chan may not join him until after the birth of my nephew. She will move back into the harem with her mother.”

  Mihri-Chan was not pleased to hear that she must remain in Constantinople, but suffered it for her husband’s sake. At their parting, Ferhad said tenderly to her, “When I return, the first thing I would see as I enter the palace is you, my love, holding our son within your soft arms.”

  In seven months’ time, Mihri-Chan was safely delivered of a healthy son, who was named Suleiman in honor of his uncle. Three months later, Ferhad Pasha rode through the gates of the palace, and the first thing that he did see was his wife, their son nestled in her soft arms. One hour later, Ferhad Pasha was dead—judged and bowstringed by order of the sultan, who had recalled him for the very abuse of power that had brought him back from Syria.

  That night Suleiman entered his mother’s court and was accosted by his sister, now garbed in black. For a long moment they stared at one another, and finally Mihri-Chan spoke. “I hope it will not be long before I wear mourning for you, my beloved brother.” Then, turning, she melted into the night In the morning they found her dead. Mihri-Chan had swallowed poison.

  Desolate, Suleiman retired to his quarters and wept bitterly. His sadness was increased by the fact that Sarina, resigning her position as haznedar usta, had requested his permission to take her orphaned grandson and leave the serai. His sister Guzel had offered them a home. Sarina was eager to go, and Suleiman could not refuse her.

  Taking her leave of him, she somewhat eased his guilt. “Do not grieve, my nephew. Mihri-Chan was grief-stricken. She would not have done it otherwise.”

  “She would be alive today, aunt if I had forgiven Ferhad.”

  Sarina surprised him “Ferhad was a mad dog, and mad dogs must be killed. Ah, do not stare so. It is true. My daughter told me many things. Her weakness was that she loved him oonsumingly. Better that Ferhad remained a soldier, for power corrupted him. He would not have stopped until all of Turkey was embroiled in civil war. I will always be near should you need the services of this old woman. Perhaps in a few years’ time little Suleiman will enter the Princes’ School. There he may be trained for service to his sultan and thus wipe away his father’s shame.”

  They embraced, and he watched as she walked slowly from his sight Like his mother, Suleiman questioned the quick passage of time. Only yesterday Sarina had been a slim maiden, her chestnut curls shaking, her golden eyes flashing as she scolded and chased him from her tulip beds. Now the chestnut hair was steel-gray and the lovely golden eyes faded and sad. Lines of grief and age marked the once-smooth face. She was growing old, and he had not noticed it until today.

  Aside from his mother and Firousi, Sarina was his last link with the past His father, his grandfather, Zuleika Kadin, the lady Refet Hadji Bey, and his brothers were all dead. And the silvery-blond Firousi, like Sarina, had gone from the serai to live with her daughter Hale.

  Sighing, he realized that he, too, was growing older—he would be thirty-two on his next birthday. It was early in the year 1526, and the battle for Hungary loomed ahead.

  38

  AS USUAL, the princes of Western Europe were embroiled in their own petty quarrels. Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, had trouble on three fronts. In Spain, the Moors were regrouping and stubbornly resisting the church’s efforts at conversion. In Germany, Martin Luther had not only the peasants but the landed aristocracy on his side, and all was in turmoil. To the south, France fought the emperor’s troops for possession of northern Italy, and only the capture of the French king, Francis I, ended the conflict.

  To the east the Hungarians had held off the invading Turks for five years. Exhausted they now appealed to Charles V, but despite the fact that Charles’s sister Mary was married to the Hungarian king, Louis, the Holy Roman Emperor demurred and dragged his royal feet He was far too occupied with his own troubles to be overly concerned with those of his brother-in-law.

  In August 1526, Suleiman led his men against the Hungarians at the village of Mohács. He won a sweeping victory which he quickly followed by taking the Hungarian capital of Buda. The Ottoman Empire now reached to within one hundred and forty miles, as the crow flies, from Vienna. The pashas counseled pressing onward into the soft underbelly of Europe, but winter was coming, and Suleiman returned home to Constantinople instead.

  Earlier in the year, the sultan had received a letter from the queen mother of France, who asked his help in gaining the release of her son. On learning of this, Charles V released Francis, but not without gaining heavy concessions, claiming he had been forced to sign them. He also disavowed his friendship with Suleiman and declared he would lead a Crusade against the infidel Turk.

  Still, Suleiman demurred on pressing further into Europe. The young diplomat who had become such a great soldier was again becoming a diplomat Cyra disagreed. Only if he took Vienna would the rulers of Western Europe view the Ottoman sultan seriously. But Suleiman was adamant He hoped to gain the friendship of the West by remaining at peace.

  Unfortunately, the less sophisticated rulers of Christian Europe could not see the wisdom of an alliance with the Ottoman Empire. In the name of their religion they insulted and harried the Turks until Suleiman was forced to march on Vienna in order to protect his western boundaries.

  For several weeks he had attempted to lay siege to the city, but for the first time in his military career he was faced with a well-trained Christian army. Fortifying Vienna, its defenders retreated within and held the sultan at bay
for twelve days.

  Arriving at the city in high spirits, Suleiman had sent the following greeting to the Austrians: “On the third day I shall eat breakfast within your walls.” On the afternoon of the third day, the Austrian commander, Nicholas, count of Salm, sent a message back to the sultan. It read: ‘Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  At any other time Suleiman would have laughed, but winter was coming on. He remembered the terrible winter siege of Rhodes. Fodder for the horses was getting scarce, and within days the snows would begin blocking the mountain passes back to Turkey. His lines of supply cut, he would be forced to defend himself instead of attacking the Austrians.

  The sultan did not hesitate. Giving the order to pull out he marched his army home, where another defeat of sorts awaited him. He could not keep peace even in his own harem. His kadins had become openly hostile to one another, and only the strength of the valideh prevented the serai from splitting into two camps.

  For several years, Cyra had constantly changed attendants in the suites of her daughter-in-law’s to prevent them from forming friendships that might grow into partisanship. Though this policy had helped to some extent, it had not prevented Khurrem from attracting allies. Who could resist the beautiful blond Russian, compared to the sulky, embittered Gulbehar?

  One morning the valideh and the two kadins were seated out-of-doors taking advantage of the late autumn sunshine when Prince Selim, a short, pudgy child of six, came howling to his mother.

  “Mustafa pushed me down,” he wailed, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve—a habit Cyra found disgusting and had tried without success to eradicate.

  Five-year-old Bajazet trotted up. “No, he didn’t We were playing tag, and Selim fell over his own feet as Mustafa reached to tag him. He always ducks to avoid being ‘it’ but this time he fell and skinned his knee on a stone.”