by Zia Wesley
Several minutes later, the Kutuchu Usta returned to find Nakshidil propped up against her pillows and faintly smiling.
“It is odd, Mahine, but I feel fine now.”
The herbalist raised her eyebrows knowingly, her suspicion confirmed. “When did you last bleed?” she asked.
Nakshidil frowned in thought. Well, the last moon was... she silently calculated in her mind. “I always come into cycle...” her words trailed off as the reason for her sickness dawned on her. “Last week. I should have bled last week,” she said, her face breaking into a smile.
Mahine gently squeezed Nakshidil’s hands. “You are fine, my lady. Stay in bed this morning, and I will bring you a special tea to calm your stomach. You must not immerse yourself in the hot baths for the next five months. Take only warm baths. I will tend you daily with teas and herbs to make you and the baby strong and healthy.”
Tears of joy filled Nakshidil’s eyes and dropped onto her cheeks. She heard Euphemia David’s prophetic words as clearly as if the old Obeah woman were in the room with her. She smiled at Mahine and said, “I am going to have a son.”
“Well, my lady,” Mahine said, “you are certainly going to have a baby.”
“No, Mahine, I am going to have a son.”
The older woman nodded. Sometimes women knew the sex of their children before they were born. “I will notify the Saray Usta to certify the pregnancy, but there will be no doubt. The Sultan has summoned you almost every night. Rest now, and I will bring you some tea,” she said, patting her hand.
When she was alone, Nakshidil pressed her hands gently against her belly.
When will I be able to feel him?
She felt instantly transformed from one being into two.
A child is growing in my body... a son.
Despite her broad smile, tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt as if her joy might burst out and fill the room with magical colors or music. Hugging her belly, she rolled onto her side laughing.
I am going to have a son. Oh, how I wish I could tell Rose. I must find a way to tell Rose... and Baba. Won’t he be surprised?
When the Saray Usta was informed of Nakshidil’s condition, she dutifully checked her register that documented visits to the Sultan. The record prevented a pregnant girl from illegally claiming a royal conception. If someone other than the Sultan impregnated a harem girl, the penalty was death. However, the Saray Usta rarely heard of these mishaps, as most women terminated unwanted pregnancies with certain herbs. Unfortunately, jealous rivals were also able to terminate the pregnancies of others without their knowledge. Once the news of Nakshidil’s pregnancy spread, her life would be in even more jeopardy.
Due to the high rate of miscarriages, women were forbidden to divulge a pregnancy to a Sultan until the first two months had safely passed.
Although unaware of Nakshidil’s condition, the Sultan enjoyed the swelling of her little breasts. He assumed that she was eating more, as he had requested, and his ardor increased along with her weight. Nakshidil laughed at his obvious passion, remembering Perestu saying “the Sultan like round woman.” The thought of her little friend made her smile, and she told the Kizlar Agasi that she wished to have the girl near her.
“I shall arrange to have the child join you in the harem as soon as possible,” he assured her.
Delighted by the prospect of being with her friend, Nakshidil arranged to install Perestu in a large room that adjoined her own apartments.
One week later, Perestu followed the Kizlar Agasi through the harem’s maze of hallways to Nakshidil’s apartment. Forgetting the appropriate protocol for addressing the Sultan’s favorite, the young girl ran into Nakshidil’s arms and hugged her tightly.
“Namay, Namay, I miss you so much,” she cried.
Nakshidil was touched to hear her old name spoken and did not correct the girl. “I missed you too, little sparrow. Let me see how much you’ve grown,” she said, holding the girl at arm’s length. She shook her head from side to side in mock disappointment. “We shall have to fatten you up. Remember, the ‘Sultan like round woman.’”
They spent the entire afternoon talking about everything that had happened to them since they had last met.
“And what of love?” Perestu asked.
Taken aback by the forthright question, Nakshidil replied, “Love?”
“Yes. You love the Sultan?”
“I do not think so, but perhaps I do. He is kind and gentle and happy to grant my every wish. Many evenings we talk for more time than we make love,” she replied.
“Maybe this is love,” Perestu said thoughtfully. “Do you ever love someone different from this, Namay?”
She thought for a moment. “There was a young man on the ship whom I thought I might have loved.” Her voice trailed off as the old pain crept into her chest. She had not thought of him in a long time, and could still picture his handsome face and hear the strange inflection of his brogue-tinged French. “Mr. Braugham,” she whispered.
Perestu saw the pain her query had caused. “I am sorry, sister,” she said, reaching out to hold Nakshidil’s hands. “I never know love. It hurt, yes?”
Tears rolled down Nakshidil’s cheeks. “I don’t really know.” She wiped her tears, and attempted to smile. “I doubt I know anything at all of love.”
~ ~ ~
By the end of her second month of pregnancy, Nakshidil felt quite well. The morning sickness and afternoon fatigue had begun to subside leaving her with a new found energy. Anxious to share her news with the child’s father, she requested a special audience following the noon meal.
Nakshidil entered the Sultan’s chambers dressed in rose colored silk, with the Sultan’s sapphires strewn through her hair. She knelt, touching her forehead to the floor.
Surprised by her formal approach, the Sultan rose from his divan and walked to her, extending his hands to help her rise.
“Nakshidil, why do you prostrate yourself so? What is wrong?”
She smiled and replied, “Nothing is wrong my lord—quite the contrary. You are going to be a father again.”
His face contorted as if he could not comprehend her words. “Nakshidil,” he whispered.
She grasped his arm, thinking his legs might give out, and helped him to a divan.
“I did not think that you could make me any happier. I never dreamed.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But you are the one who must rest,” he said, rising and helping her to recline in turn. “You must rest and take special care. I shall call my physicians at once.”
Nakshidil laughed. “If you wish, my lord, but I am quite well. My Kutuchu Usta has been taking care of me for two months, and says that I am perfectly healthy. I do feel very well—excellent in fact, although I am constantly hungry.”
He sat on a footstool by her side and kissed her hands “You shall have everything you need, my love, anything you desire. You have made me happier than you can ever know.”
She gave his arm a little tug to bring him onto the divan beside her, and in a conspiratorial tone whispered, “My Lord, I believe I carry your son.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, the Sultan stroked her cheek and smiled. “My son... may Allah make it so.”
He noticed how radiant she looked, and wondered why he had not guessed at her condition himself. Well, I have only seen one pregnant woman, and Nuket Seza never looked like this.
Word of Nakshidil’s pregnancy spread through the harem like fire through a barn. However, fearing the punishment they might receive as bearers of bad news, none of Nuket Seza’s spies was willing to tell her. Consequently, it was purely by chance that she overheard women discussing the pregnancy in the communal baths. She had gone there desperate for an evening’s diversion, and never imagined she would hear such horrible news.
Feeling angry and embarrassed to be the last to know, she made an uncharacteristic effort to control her temper, lest the other women discover her ignorance. Gritting her teeth together, she left the baths as quickl
y as she could, her mind silently screaming, the li’l slut... pregnant.
What could be more demeaning than failing to learn the harem’s most important secret? That was what she paid her spies for. Why didn’t they tell me? Worthless lying curs. I paid them well. Now they will pay.
The Baskadine waddled down the halls to her apartments, and once safely inside, let out a screeching stream of obscenities that sent Mustapha and her servants fleeing. She smashed anything breakable within reach, as her blood pressure soared and her head began to throb. Sweating profusely, and unable to catch her breath, she ordered a servant to bring her a bottle of Arak.
She was desperate to eliminate the girl. She needed to think. Since thinking was a task for which she had little facility, she drank Arak, hoping to stimulate her less than clever mind. Unfortunately, it never produced the desired effect.
Unable to organize her scattered thoughts, Nuket chanted the same phrase repeatedly, like a mantra, “Must kill li’l whore’s baby. Must kill li’l whore’s baby.”
When two bottles of Arak had been emptied and she still had not devised a plan to eliminate her rival, she rolled onto her stomach, vomited onto the floor and passed out.
Nuket Seza’s servants quietly cleaned up her mess, sickened by the stench but careful not to awaken the sleeping dragon.
A few days later, Nuket used Mustapha in an attempt to gain entrance to Nakshidil’s apartment, believing the guards would not suspect a child. But Nakshidil’s guards were familiar with the boy’s malevolent nature, and barred him from entering.
His mission thwarted, Mustapha smashed the glass of poisoned serbet against Nakshidil’s closed door, and cursed the guards vilely as he slunk away to secrete himself in his safe hiding place. His mother might kill him for failing. He needed time to invent a lie to throw the blame onto someone else.
Chapter 4
During the next three months of Nakshidil’s pregnancy, Nuket Seza made several more unsuccessful attempts to poison her. The continual disappointments fueled her habit of drinking Arak, and she quickly began to deteriorate. Even the women whose “friendship” she had bought found it painful to witness her self-destruction. In her disturbed mind, the new favorite became the sole reason for all of her pain and failure. Obsessed with her desire to destroy Nakshidil, and too drunk most of the time to control her tongue, she voiced her hatred, as well as her plans, to anyone willing to listen.
It would have been impossible for her behavior to go unnoticed by the Baskatibe, the harem secretary in charge of conduct and discipline. Nuket Seza’s position as Baskadine could never be changed—she would always be the Mother of the First-born, but the leniency her position afforded was not infinite. Constrained by the laws of protocol, the secretary watched and waited, certain that a punishable crime would eventually be committed, and hoping it would not be the death of the Sultan’s favorite, or his unborn child.
At least Nuket Seza’s indiscriminate outbursts kept the Circassian Kadine abreast of her plans, and allowed Nakshidil to stay ahead in the treacherous game. However, the constant threats were taking a toll on Nakshidil. It frightened her to realize she had begun to understand Nuket Seza’s motives, and that she herself was, of necessity, becoming cunning.
~ ~ ~
Now in the sixth month of her pregnancy, she awoke early one morning and sat among the soft silk pillows on her bed, sipping rose-petal tea. For the hundredth time, she thought about Euphemia David’s prediction. She had previously not believed that every aspect might come true, but at present no doubt remained. She pondered the part about her son’s reign preceded by “the blood of his predecessor.” Does this refer to the death of Selim or Mustapha?
She now understood that the sultan’s nephew, Selim as the eldest male was the rightful heir. Nakshidil also knew that Nuket Seza would never cease her efforts to eliminate him in order to raise her own son, Mustapha to that position. The struggle for power would never cease as long as Nuket Seza and her son lived.
What if Nuket Seza succeeded in killing Selim?
The thought sent a chill up her arms. She took a sip of her tea and had an odd thought. Perhaps it was she, and not Nuket Seza, who would determine her unborn son’s fate. If that were true, and her son’s fate rested in her own hands, what must she do? She closed her eyes and the answer was clear: the “blood of his predecessor” would be spilt by her own hand. As Mustapha was next in line before her own son, it must be his blood that is spilled. Am I truly thinking this? Another chill made her body shake, and she hugged her shawl closer around her shoulders.
She remembered being in the convent, romantically pondering the possibility that life might hold “more” for her than she suspected, but that girl could never have imagined any of this!
~ ~ ~
The larger Nakshidil’s belly grew, the more protective she became of her unborn son, and the more resolved to take action. She made preparations to keep the baby with her at all times, arranging for a milk mother and a nurse to live in two small rooms adjoining her apartments. Then she instructed masons to seal both doors that led to the outside, making the only access to the nursery through her private rooms. Her suite would be an impenetrable fortress, and she its guardian.
Many times she wished that she could call upon Euphemia David, and wondered if the seer were still alive. She considered sharing the prediction with the Circassian Kadine, but feared she might disapprove. Unfortunately, Nakshidil had not yet discovered that many women of the harem practiced “the black arts”—foretelling the future—or that the Circassian Kadine herself spent an inordinate amount of time with one of them, a young Greek girl gifted in palmistry.
The girl’s name was Sholay, and she had been in the seraglio for three years. From her earliest days in the Cariye Dairisi, she had openly shown a preference for girls. The Kutuchu Usta made this known to the Circassian Kadine, who casually replied, “She will most likely outgrow it. So often girls prefer other girls until they experience a man.”
However, during her final tests, Sholay had become wildly infatuated with the Circassian Kadine, and during a moment alone, made her feelings known. The Kadine passed the girl, hoping to pursue the mutual attraction within the “safer” confines of the harem.
A short time later, following their first tryst, Sholay read the Kadine’s palm quite accurately, further endearing her to the older woman.
During the months that followed, Sholay’s feelings became so strong she begged the Kadine to keep her for herself, rather than present her to the Sultan. The request was the first of its kind ever received by the Kadine, whose favor was usually courted for the opposite purpose, an introduction to the Sultan. Although Sholay was not the first lover the Kadine had taken in the harem, she was the only one who lacked the desire to advance her own position.
Perhaps it was Sholay’s guileless attraction, or simply the girl’s voracious sexuality that eroded the Kadine’s usual defenses. Whatever the cause, the result was clear. For the first time in her life, the Circassian Kadine felt the bittersweet pangs of love, and allowed herself to be vulnerable with another human being. They shared their most intimate thoughts, fears, and feelings and, for the first time since the birth of her son, the Kadine felt truly happy. Since offering herself as a teenager, the Kadine had never allowed herself to imagine she might ever find love. Instead, she had sought and found power. Now, at the advanced age of forty-one, she was unexpectedly disarmed by the love of a young woman.
Within the harem, the intricacies of any illicit love affair were always complex and dangerous. The Kadine enjoyed more freedom because of her position and more importantly, was not one of the Sultan’s women. Unfortunately, this was not true for Sholay. Since the penalty for an unfaithful odalisque was death, both women were careful to keep their relationship hidden. For a little more than a year, they had loved each other with the utmost discretion, or so they believed.
Had Nakshidil spoken of Euphemia David’s prediction to the Circassian Kadine, sh
e would surely have called upon Sholay to read the girl’s palm. But the women who practiced the “black arts,” like illicit lovers, also practiced discretion. They were sometimes called upon to do more than just predict an outcome, and punishment for working their craft could be as mild as imprisonment or as severe as death. Should anyone who wished to do her harm learn of her clandestine activities, Sholay’s life would be jeopardized on two counts.
~ ~ ~
As Nakshidil’s pregnancy flowered into the seventh month, the opportunity that Nuket Seza sought finally arrived with an older serving woman whose malice was fueled by her lack of power and favor.
It was noon, and Nuket Seza was enjoying her third meal of the day, gnawing on the leg of a pheasant. She barely acknowledged the woman who stood before her, bowing deeply.
“I have good news, my lady.”
“How much?” Nuket Seza asked without looking up.
The woman wrung her hands nervously. “Oh, very valuable news, my lady. Very valuable indeed.”
Nuket Seza continued ripping flesh from the bird’s leg. “Ten gold pieces. No more.”
“That is very generous, my lady, very generous, but my information is worth so much more, I assure you.”
Nuket Seza had been inundated with useless bits of gossip for six months, paying for secrets that never led her anywhere. Nakshidil was still alive and pregnant, while she was just angrier and poorer. She flung the gnawed bone onto the floor and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Ten pieces or nothing. Speak or get out.”
“Ten pieces, yes. However, I should like to propose that should you see the value of my news, and if by chance it leads to the solution you have been seeking, that one hundred pieces of gold might be more appropriate.”
Nuket Seza began to shift her body as if she might get up, and the spy backed away and began speaking rapidly.
“There is a young girl, Greek girl, Sholay. She is the lover of the Circassian Kadine.”
