The French Sultana

by Zia Wesley

By early the following morning in the hour before dawn, Nuket Seza began to sober a little, and in doing so, realized her defeat. She rose laboriously from her divan and systematically began destroying every piece of furniture in her apartment. Wielding splintered pieces of wood, she staggered after her petrified servants and severed the carotid artery of one woman, who didn’t run away fast enough causing her to slowly bleed to death. She broke the arm of another servant, who fled screaming from the harem to the infirmary for aid. When she could find nothing else to destroy, the disgraced Baskadine took a bottle of Arak from her pantry’s shelves and stumbled to her bath, where she drank until she passed out.

  When word of the mayhem reached the Kizlar Agasi, he strode into her apartments to witness the destruction for himself. As he stood amidst the blood-spattered debris, his expression of disgust gradually changed to one of relief. We are rid of her at last. Nothing short of a miracle could bring her back from the Palace of Tears now. Unless some misfortune were to befall Selim, and then... it was too horrible to contemplate. If Selim died, Mustapha would be Sultan, making Nuket Seza Valide Sultana, the most powerful woman in the whole empire.

  The Kizlar Agasi left the wrecked apartment vowing to increase his protection of Selim. Even with Nuket Seza out of the way, one never knew from whence evil might arise. With so many factions vying for power and the Janissaries gaining strength daily, one simply could not be too careful.

  Chapter 6

  Nuket Seza’s banishment had saved Nakshidil from more than bodily harm. It saved her from committing murder.

  Aimée sat on a bench beneath a flowering lemon tree in her private garden. Resting her hands atop her pregnant belly, she wondered how such a drastic change had taken place. In France she had been judged by others and was found wanting. Now she had become the judge and wanted for nothing. It seemed to be an impossible shift in her reality. Had she really made the decision to end the life of another human being? Engrossed in protecting herself and her unborn child, she had never questioned her actions. Neither had anyone else. When she asked her Kutuchu Usta if it was possible to obtain an undetectable poison that might be added to food, the woman simply replied, “Yes, my lady,” bringing her the poison within the hour. Perhaps beneath their refinements, the Turks truly were barbarians—and she had become one of them.

  Aimée closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet fragrance of frangipani, surprised by her lack of guilt. Instead, she felt relieved to have avoided disaster. How can I be a good Catholic and plan murder? In the eyes of the Church, she had already committed so many grievous sins, and continued to commit them daily—her enjoyment of sensual pleasure, her unsanctioned love affair with the Sultan, sins of thought too numerous to count, and of course, the imminent birth of her bastard child! Yet, she did not feel the least regret or remorse for any of them.

  Perestu entered the garden and whispered, “Do you sleep?”

  “No, just thinking. Come sit,” she said patting the bench next to where she sat. “Perestu, when I was captured by the pirates, I prayed to the Holy Virgin, our Savior’s mother, to save me.”

  “And she did. She must be a powerful god, yes?”

  “Yes, my prayers were answered. I was delivered into the hands of my personal savior, Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, who brought me here. So, I was indeed truly saved.”

  “Lucky for you—and for me too,” the young girl said, smiling broadly.

  “But, if the Blessed Virgin saw fit to rescue me in that way, mustn’t that mean the Church also approves?”

  “I do not understand ‘church,’” she said.

  Aimée thought for a moment and then said, “I suppose “church” is the house of God where people gather to pray to him.”

  “Oh, your gods live in church?”

  “Well, not really. That is, they, or rather He lived a long time ago and is dead now.”

  “How can dead gods punish anyone?” she asked, making Aimée laugh.

  “I suppose you are right, little bird. I wish to believe in my old gods, but I am not sure if they live here.”

  “Surely, Allah is here with us,” the young woman said opening her arms and smiling broadly. “He protects us now. No need to worry. I must go see to your dinner. Come in soon.”

  “I’ll be in shortly,” she said. As the girl left, Aimée let go of her theological musings and focused her attention once again. There still remained the question of Mustapha, the heir destined to be her son’s “predecessor.” Hadn’t Euphemia David said that her son would ascend the throne “on the blood of his predecessor”? Mustapha was now incarcerated in the Cage, but he would become Sultan after Selim. If and when that happened, would he pose a threat to her son? Would it then fall on her to spill his blood, as Nuket Seza had done to all those other children? These questions truly disturbed her, causing Aimée to fear for her mortal soul. She may not be punished in this life, but what about the afterlife?

  She plucked a fragrant frangipani blossom from the tree and held it to her nose, happy that she and her unborn child were safe at least for now. She was ignorant of the fact that the Circassian Kadine was not as fortunate. Sholay had remained in a coma for several days, in the home of Mufti Velly Zade. On the sixth day, having gone without nourishment or water, she quietly passed away. Unable to share her despair or cope with the loss, the Kadine retreated into her opium, certain that she would never again know the joy of love.

  ~ ~ ~

  Spring quickly turned into summer, and once more the harem gardens came alive with a vivid profusion of flowers, herbs and heavily-laden fruit trees. Despite the emotional challenges, Aimée remained strong and healthy, and early on the morning of July 20, in the year 1783, she gave birth to a healthy, seven-pound baby boy. The birth of the child coaxed the Kadine from her apartments, and the site of him brought a smile to her face for the first time in months.

  The Sultan named the boy Mahmud, and threw a feast in his honor for all citizens of Istanbul. Fifty thousand people filed into the First Court to receive the Sultan’s gift of as much food as they could carry away, and when the evening sky darkened, a show of fireworks set the skies over the palace ablaze for more than two hours.

  On the following day, the Sultan unveiled an ornate pavilion in the palace park. It was large enough to hold one hundred people and fashioned solely from spun sugar. The structure looked as if it were made of hand-blown glass, with spires, cupolas, domes and pillars. Thousands of potted tulip plants in shades of red, pink, yellow, orange and white surrounded the pavilion like a riotous lawn.

  Aimée, Mahmud, the Circassian Kadine and forty handmaidens observed the festivities from another lavishly furnished pavilion alongside the Sultan’s. It was the first time Aimée had been outside the seraglio in two years, and she found the celebration enthralling.

  On the third night, celebrants watched a fireworks display on the ground, rather than in the sky. Miniature replicas of the palace, the Sultan’s pet leopards, gazelles and bears, were constructed of wood and wrapped with fireworks. Once ignited, the models burned white, illuminating the park as brightly as daylight.

  On the final day of the festivities, all the women of the harem were escorted to a screened pavilion in the park for their favorite spectator sport. Propped upon thousands of silk cushions, the enthusiastic audience watched nearly naked muscled men pitting themselves against one another. They laughed and wagered furiously on each wrestling match, betting jewelry and gold on more than just which man was strongest. Bawdy fantasies were openly shared—what they would do, in an hour or a night, with one of their favorites. When a match ended, regardless of who won, five hundred women called out their approval in loud ululations.

  The celebration ended at dusk with the men’s call to prayer, as the Sultan’s women returned to the seraglio. The festivities honoring the birth of Mahmud lasted only four days, but would be fondly remembered by the people of Istanbul for the next hundred years.

  ~ ~ ~

  At the age of sixty-one, Sultan Ab
dul Hamid felt the true joy of being a father for the first time. He marveled at his son’s milky white skin that looked just like his mother’s, and the dark hair and eyes that resembled his own. He was so excited by fatherhood that he discarded all of the protocols designed to keep harem women at a distance, allowing Nakshidil and the baby to visit whenever she wished. They even dined together several times a week, destroying the long-held tradition of the Sultan dining alone.

  Perhaps Aimée’s model of a European marriage played a part, or maybe the Sultan’s adoration. Whatever the reason, their relationship exceeded that of monarch and odalisque, and caused the harem gossips to marvel at Aimée’s apparent inheritance of Roxelana’s legacy, the fifteenth century Russian Odalisque who had actually convinced Sultan Sulieman to legally marry her.

  The Sultan, charmed by his favorite’s interest in affairs of state, allowed her to regularly attend the Divan from the “Eye of the Sultan.” Afterwards, Nakshidil made detailed reports to the Circassian Kadine.

  The faction of the Divan that advocated westernization still comprised only the smallest number of men. But the seeds of change were being sown, and a freethinking Frenchwoman now had the Sultan’s ear—two facts her detractors were well aware of.

  Nakshidil now understood that the Janissaries and their supporters were religious isolationists who continually blocked attempts to modernize the Empire. She saw the government desperately clinging to outdated traditions that separated them from the modern world. Guided by the Circassian Kadine and the Kizlar Agasi, Nakshidil intended to shape her son’s perspective so that one day he might make modernization a reality and their Empire would take its rightful place.

  Unaware of the forces gathering against her, the new mother settled in to an idyllic life in the harem. In early June, one month before Mahmud’s first birthday, the Kizlar Agasi handed her a gift—the long-awaited letter from her cousin Rose.

  ~ ~ ~

  My dearest cousin Aimée,

  Can you imagine the shock I had to receive your letter? After word of your abduction reached us, we felt certain that you had surely met an untimely demise at the hands of your captors. It was impossible to imagine any other outcome, and I cried and cried at your terrible misfortune. It is, as you say, nothing less than a miracle that you live and prosper.

  Your letter would have reached me sooner had I still been living at the address from which I last wrote you, but, alas, my position and the state of my marriage to Vicomte Beauharnais has greatly changed.

  A little more than one year ago, in order to force my husband’s acknowledgement of the perilous financial state into which I had fallen, I initiated legal proceedings against him. I hoped to press the Vicomte to honor his responsibility to his children and me, lest we end in the poorhouse, where we were headed. Prior to that, I had found it necessary to seek refuge in L’abbaye de Penthemont, as Vicomte Beauharnais had been completely recalcitrant in his duties. I am relieved to say that the court found in my favor, and I am presently provided for and allowed to live wherever I wish. It is all that Paris has talked about for weeks, as no woman has ever succeeded in bringing such a suit against her husband. My Aunt Désirée has leased a property outside Paris in Fontainebleau, and generously invited me and my children to live there with her.

  In most aspects of my life, dear cousin, I am sorry to say that Euphemia David was mistaken, as my husband is still very much alive. Even if divorce should one day become legal, I have little hope for a second marriage, as I have two children and very little means of support.

  I am filled with happiness at your positive outcome. How strange to imagine the woman you have become—the wife of a Sultan! No doubt, by the time this letter reaches you, a mother as well. Did you ever for one moment actually believe the old witch’s predictions that you should find happiness in a seraglio on the other side of the world? How we reveled in the prospect of becoming queens—and so you have. As for me, any chance I may have had has surely passed. I have come to accept my circumstance and feel fortunate to have a lovely place to live with a doting Auntie and two darling children whom I adore. Although, Vicomte Beauharnais has petitioned to take our son, Eugène, into his care in September, when the boy turns five. I am doing all in my power to prevent this, but fear the courts may find in his favor, as he is legally the father, with more rights to his son than I. Hortense turns three next month, and although it would ease my financial burden were she my only child, I pray to keep my son with me.

  As regards news of our families on Martinique, my parents have had a difficult time, and still struggle to make a success of the plantation. Father came to Paris last year in an attempt to re-establish himself, but did not succeed, and returned home just last month. I am sorry to say that Uncle Jean-Louis passed on last December, but Aunt Lavinia remains in good health, now residing in Fort-Royal. I posted letters to her and Aunt Sophie reporting on your good fortune.

  Please write me soon and tell more of your life and news of your child.

  I remain as ever,

  Your loving cousin,

  Rose

  After finishing the letter, Nakshidil held it in her hands for several minutes, and then read it again. It had been a long time since she had thought of herself as Aimée. She heard her cousin’s voice in each word, and her heart ached with the news of her struggles and misfortunes. It was hard to imagine her stoic Uncle Jean-Louis dead. She closed her eyes and tried to picture Rose’s face. Scenes played across her mind of herself and Rose at the beach, chasing each other with long seaweed whips, and Rose’s profile as she sat on the dirt floor of Euphemia David’s hut, listening raptly to the old woman’s prediction of two queens. Now Rose was as far as one could get from being royalty, having narrowly avoided destitution. But try as she might, she could not imagine Rose either poor or helpless. She had such strength of will. I always wished to be more like her.

  On an impulse, she decided to share the letter with the Circassian Kadine. They had dispensed long ago with the formalities usually observed when visiting, and simply appeared at each other’s apartments, unannounced, whenever they wished. However, on this particular day, when Nakshidil entered the Kadine’s apartment, she was shocked to encounter another guest—a handsome young man who almost dropped his coffee cup when she entered.

  The Kadine laughed. “Nakshidil, may I present my son, Selim.”

  Nakshidil bowed deeply to the Sultan’s nephew and heir to the throne, and then suddenly realized that her face was not covered. She turned to the Kadine in panic.

  “No one need know,” the Kadine said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Were we in France, you would be the Sultan’s wife and Selim would be your nephew, no?”

  The sultan’s favorite looked directly into the young man’s dark, almond-shaped eyes and smiled. His fine-looking face softened into a shy smile that revealed his resemblance to his mother—the large, sensual mouth and strong jaw line.

  Nakshidil felt herself blush. Not only was Selim the first young man she had seen in over three years, he was so handsome. She knew from conversations with the Kadine that he was barely two years older than she. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, my lord,” she said, executing a curtsy.

  Selim maintained his composure, despite the fact that he had seen so few uncovered women’s faces since he was twelve. He had never seen anyone who looked like this one. “My mother has spoken of you often. I hoped that we might meet one day.”

  Nakshidil felt the letter in her hand and remembered the purpose of her visit. “Forgive my intrusion. I did not know that you were engaged, Mihrisah, or would not have interrupted. I have had a letter from abroad that I wished to share with you...” Her voice trailed off as she gingerly revealed the letter she held.

  “From abroad?” the Kadine asked incredulously.

  “Yes, from France.”

  “How extraordinary. Well then you must join us. Please sit. Selim has a great interest in foreign governm
ents. Perhaps you might speak to him of such things.”

  Nakshidil reclined on a divan adjacent to the Kadine’s. “Thank you, but this letter makes no mention of politics. It is from my cousin, Rose. We grew up together on Martinique, and she is now in France. I am sure...” she hesitated, unsure of how to refer to the young man, “your son would find nothing of interest or value within its contents.”

  She hastily tucked the letter into her girdle pocket. “But I would gladly share my very limited knowledge of such matters, with...”

  Sensing her quandary, the young man said, “Please call me Selim. I am anxious to bring the modern practices of other countries to our empire. Were you Queen of France, how would you address the throne’s successor?”

  She thought for a moment. “If I were Marie Antoinette, I imagine I would call my son by his Christian name, his first name. But were I the dauphine’s aunt, I would address him as ‘your grace.’”

  “And if you were not a queen, and I were not the heir?”

  Her heart pounded louder in her ears. “Had we just been introduced, I would call you Monsieur and your surname, last name, rather than your first.”

  “Then I should like to be called ‘Monsieur Selim’ as a compromise.”

  She smiled shyly and nodded. “Of course, Monsieur Selim.”

  For a moment, she lost track of everything she had learned and practiced for the past two years: her surroundings, her position, Turkish protocol. She became an ordinary young woman making conversation with a young man—a young man who made her palms sweat and the blood rise to her cheeks.

  “Monsieur Selim,” she said, feeling his name in her mouth like lavender serbet, “I would be honored to tell you all that I know, although I fear it may be too little to satisfy your thirst.”

  “A drop of water when one is parched is better than none at all, yes?”

  “I see that you are already a statesman,” she said.

  “I have had an excellent tutor,” he said, indicating his mother. “And now, perhaps I shall have another.”