The French Sultana

by Zia Wesley

  Neither woman could have known that Perestu’s inability to conceive was also the concern of Cavus Hamza. Since Selim’s ascension, the spy had paid close attention to the Sultan’s assignations, watching and waiting for pregnancies and births that never took place. He carefully noted the lack of fertility within the harem and began to devise a plan to make the information public—as a topic of gossip in the Divan. After all, the Empire had never been ruled by an impotent Sultan. A respected ruler needed to be virile and prolific, to sire sons that exemplified that virility. The Quran might even speak about this anomaly. He made a mental note to ask a member of the Ulema. He had no doubt that if more people were made to see Selim’s weakness, they would join with the Janissaries and overthrow him to put Mustapha on the throne. A young foolish Sultan would be easily manipulated, leaving the governing to older, wiser men like himself. With Sultan Selim gone, it would be simple to eliminate the only other pretender, Mahmud.

  October 10, 1795

  Dearest, dearest Rose,

  What a great relief to know you and your children are finally safe—France too, one hopes. My prayers were answered the day your last letter arrived. I feared that amidst the unrest, Monsieur Ruffin might forsake his position and that I would, in turn, lose my ability to contact you. All appears to be well at last, and I am happy to say it goes just as well here.

  My little Mahmud is no longer little at twelve years of age, and cares more for his true swords than he ever did his toy soldiers. Why do all boys wish to be soldiers, and why do they have no regard for death as we do? What a little man he has become.

  I am excited to tell you that we now have a French printing press that produces our own French newspaper here in Istanbul. Wonderful changes have taken place since Selim became Sultan six years ago, and your new revolutionary government has been extremely generous towards us, sending soldiers to train our men in the new methods of warfare and armaments. Next spring, we begin the construction of our first foundry, under the advisement of French engineers and artisans. It will enable us to build cannon and balls to protect the city, and they are building a fortress right above the palace. It is all too exciting for words. My French library in the city was completed last year, and now contains over one thousand books—all imported of course.

  I am relieved beyond description for your happiness and well-being, and wish you to know that I too am equally well. I could not tell you of my love for Selim in my last letters because it pained me to speak of my happiness when yours seemed so far away. Before my husband (as I think of him), Selim’s uncle, died, he gave us his blessing and charged Selim to care well for Mahmud and me. Now our friendship has grown into love, and despite the many other women who share his affections (difficult for you to grasp, I am sure), it is quite extraordinary. I wish you could be here to see for yourself, for it is unlike anything we ever imagined—ever.

  With fondest regards and kisses, your loving cousin,

  Aimée

  Chapter 13

  Paris, October 15, 1795

  Rose looked over all her dresses and carefully chose the newest and most attractive one, a dark green silk shift in the latest style. She slipped on a pair of matching satin slippers and tied a simple scarf once around her head to hold her long auburn curls in place, allowing a few curls to spill down the sides of her face and neck in a girlish manner, hoping to create the illusion of youth. Considering her reflection in the looking glass, she thought she might actually appear a bit younger than her thirty-two years. She sighed deeply. Everyone already knows me for what I am, she thought, a middle-aged widow with two grown children. Fortunately, she had no need of financial support and would happily settle for a man’s companionship or... perhaps I should just take a cadre of lovers, like Aunt Sophie did. She adjusted the scarf in her hair and thought, Why not a second marriage? All aspects of Madame David’s predictions have come to pass thus far. Perhaps I might also be a queen. She laughed at her distinctly un-royal reflection in the glass.

  Rose thrived on the lively evenings she spent at Mlle. Le Normand’s salons, the interesting discussions about government and policies with artists who cared so passionately for everything. Tonight, her friend Paul Barras said, there might be an interesting foreigner at the soirée, a military man of some sort whom he thought she might enjoy.

  She was still adjusting her curls when the front door knocker sounded, and a moment later her housekeeper entered the dressing room holding a calling card in her hand. “Citizen Barras has come to call,” she said.

  Rose entered the parlor and extended her hand in greeting. “Monsieur Barras, how odd. I was just thinking of you when the knocker sounded.”

  “Madame de Beauharnais,” he said, kissing the back of her hand, “It is always a pleasure to see you. I realized as I approached your house, that you might care to ride to Mademoiselle Le Normand’s with me.”

  “Yes, of course. How thoughtful.”

  “And on the way, I will tell you about the gentleman I want to introduce you to this evening. I have a distinctly strong feeling about this one, Madame. I find him fascinating, and think you might as well.”

  They entered the waiting carriage and settled into the cozy velvet seats, sitting side by side rather than across from one another. Rose rested her hand on the inside of Monsieur Barras’s thigh and looked up at him invitingly. “You are so very thoughtful, Monsieur,” she said with a smile. He kissed the nape of her neck as she said, “Now you have piqued my curiosity, chérie. Tell me more of this man you find so fascinating, and tell me why you find him so.”

  “Well, of course you are aware of the incident at the Tuileries ten days ago, the one everyone is now calling 13 Vendémiaire?”

  “Of course, all of Paris knows about that.”

  “Then you may also know that when the angry mob of Royalists tried to attack the Convention, it was this young man who brought the cannon and fired grapeshot upon the mob, clearing the streets instantly.”

  Rose gasped. “Yes, he has some strange foreign name. Is he a general then?”

  “No, but I immediately promoted him to the rank of Major.”

  “Firing on fellow Frenchmen must have been a difficult choice to make,” she said.

  “For an ordinary man, perhaps, but it was his idea and he never hesitated. I must admit, in many ways, he is not a typical Frenchman.”

  “Now I am intrigued. Exactly how is he not typical?” she teased.

  “He is Corsican.”

  “Corsican? Oh, yes. He is Italian.”

  “Not technically, despite the fact that everyone still thinks Corsica to be Italian. France actually purchased the island one year before his birth, so he is in fact a French citizen. Although, I must say, he seems quite Italian in appearance and temperament—darkly brooding and quite passionate.”

  “Hmm, that does sound intriguing. And his family is?” she let her question rest there without completion, as she had become accustomed to doing. No one was supposed to care any longer about rank and aristocracy, but, of course, the aristocracy still cared deeply.

  “Of little consequence, although his father was a lawyer at King Louis’s court for a few years. Fortunately, it was long before the troubles began. The father’s position afforded the young man the best military schooling, during which he distinguished himself quite admirably. That is where I first encountered him—when he was just fifteen.”

  “And, how young is he now, Monsieur?” she asked.

  “Not too young, Madame, just twenty-seven.”

  “Oh, mon dieu. Why would he care for a woman of my age?”

  He smiled conspiratorially. “Because, my dear, like many an ambitious young man, he requires your position and money.”

  “Oh, you are a devil!” she laughed. “I see you have a plan for my future... and just when I had decided to take another lover instead of a husband.”

  He lifted her skirts and ran his hand up the inside of her naked thigh, bringing his face very close to hers. “Wha
t might prevent you from taking as many lovers as you wish, Madame, once you are respectably married to a man for whom I predict greatness?”

  His touch made her moan softly. She closed her eyes and rested the back of her head on the seat. “What indeed?” she whispered. “Won’t you be jealous?”

  “There is no room for jealousy in either war or politics, and I intend to guide this young man in both. One can never acquire too many well-placed friends,” he said, taking her hand and placing it on his erection. “And he will need to travel with the army for most of the year.”

  “Oh, you truly are a devil, cherie! I doubt I shall like him as much as you. What is his name again?”

  “Probably too Italian for a man with his ambitions, Napoleone Buonaparte.”

  “Mon dieu. He sounds more like a Signore than a Monsieur. Well, what’s in a name? as Monsieur Shakespeare said.”

  December 17, 1795

  My dearest cousin Aimée,

  This may be the happiest Christmas I shall ever have. My dear friend Paul Barras, whom I mentioned in my last letter, recently introduced me (exactly two months ago today) to the most intriguing young man, who has just proposed marriage to me! His name is General Napoleone Buonaparte, and he is of Corsican birth. He is hailed as a hero in Paris, for it was he who finally put an end to the Royalist revolts on 13 Vendémiaire (the first month in our new Republican calendar) and brought hope for the end of the revolution. Monsieur Barras recently appointed him to lead our army fighting foreign wars. He is unlike my departed husband in every way—short of stature and exotic in his dark, swarthy looks, of a serious nature and quite passionate.

  So, my dearest dear, at last it has come to pass. My second marriage to a man six years my junior and with much promise. He is the most ambitious man I have ever encountered, and if you recall Madame David’s words regarding his prospects you will remember that she said he would be of little importance when we married, but would then attain great renown and rule the world. You would easily imagine him thusly should you ever encounter him. I am happy beyond belief, and of course, Eugène idolizes him and may be able to serve in his command, which would ease my constant worry for his safety. General Buonoparte was exactly Eugène’s age, fourteen, when he received his first commission in the army. We will marry in March and remain in Paris. How I wish you could be here.

  Hortense is already a young lady of twelve and reminds me little of myself at that age, as she is cultured, well behaved and a gifted composer of music. As mother of a daughter I now shudder at the memory of my terrible behavior, and feel grateful she does not resemble me in that regard.

  Please write me of your news and by the time this reaches you, the marriage banns will already have been published. If only you could be here with me to celebrate my happiness.

  I close, as ever your devoted cousin,

  Rose

  February 7, 1796

  Dearest cousin Rose,

  How overjoyed I am for you and your forthcoming marriage. I too wish I could be there, but of course I am unable to leave my beloved Empire. Since the death of my dear friend, Mihrisah, the Sultan’s mother, I now occupy the position of Valide Sultana, Mother of the Heir. As such, I am responsible for the welfare of the Empire’s women and children, our schools, hospitals, public baths and other public buildings. It is an enormous task that requires more attention than I have ever paid or needed to pay to anything. My life is quite exciting in ways I never imagined it might be.

  Mahmud has become quite the young gentleman, an excellent swordsman as well as poet. He straddles what I have come to think of as our two cultures, despite the fact that he has never set foot on French soil.

  Your new government continues to help us in our efforts towards modernization and our newly trained soldiers all speak French. I wonder if you or your betrothed may perhaps know General Aubert du Bayet, who is acting as our unofficial French Ambassador? Surely your friend Monsieur Barras knows him. He recently arrived to instruct our troops and help us build foundries for cannon. In return, Sultan Selim plans to appoint the first Turkish ambassador to France. So, you see, despite the distance between us, our two countries have begun to act as we do—as loving cousins.

  Who could have imagined our lives as they are, and did you ever believe so many of the old obeah woman’s predictions would actually come true? Perhaps your forthcoming marriage will truly fulfill your fate, and we will both be “queens” after all. Each year, it becomes more difficult to recall how young and carefree we once were on that little island.

  I wish you much happiness in your coming marriage, and will always remain your loving cousin,

  Aimée

  Rose found it ironic to receive Aimée’s letter on the first day of spring, which they had celebrated together as girls on Martinique. She read the letter and wished her new husband was there to share her excitement. Now she would need to write him about Aimée’s astonishing news, when she would have preferred to read it to him instead. He had left for the Austrian front on the eleventh of March, just two days after they exchanged wedding vows, and she had already received seven letters. She wondered how he had time to fight, with all that writing, but loved his romantic verbal lovemaking too much to tease him. Paul Barras had been correct—the young man was certainly passionate. Unfortunately, he was also absent, and Rose preferred constant companionship and social stimulation. When they met, she was already the toast of Parisian salons, and now that she was married to a hero of the Revolution, thrived on the complimentary attention. Recently, it seemed she communicated with those she cared for most by letters: Eugène, Aimée, Hortense and Napoleon, as he was now known. When she finished reading Aimée’s letter, she retrieved the first letter Napoleon had written her from an ornate olive wood box on her writing table. It was a proclamation of his passionate love, following their first assignation.

  February 24, 1796

  Seven o’clock in the morning.

  My darling Josephine,

  My waking thoughts are all of thee. Your portrait and the remembrance of last night’s delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and incomparable Josephine, what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart. Are you vexed? Do I see you sad? Are you ill at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover. But is there more for me when, delivering ourselves up to the deep feelings which master me, I breathe out upon your lips, upon your heart, a flame which burns me up; ah, it was this past night I realized that your portrait was not you. You start at noon; I shall see you in three hours. Meanwhile, mi dolce amore, accept a thousand kisses, but give me none, for they fire my blood.

  N. B.

  She grinned broadly and pressed the paper to her heart. I love that he calls me Josephine. What an extraordinary young man. To think I initially thought him a curious little imp. Quelle surprise! She remembered the first time he called her Josephine. Following the announcement of their engagement, they were being feted at her friend Thèrèsa Tallein’s, seated side by side at the table. One of her close friends addressed her from across the table, and when the exchange was over, he turned to her and asked, “I do not believe you have ever spoken your full given name to me, Madame. Will you please?”

  She replied slowly with a slight smile, “Marie-Josèphe Rose de Tascher de la Pagerie de Beauharnais,” she replied.

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Marie and Josèphe are far too ordinary for you, which is no doubt why everyone calls you Rose. But, I think a more appropriate and feminine version of your name is Josephine.”

  “Josephine?”

  “Yes, it flows more beautifully. Josephine de Beauharnais, or should I say Josephine Buonoparte? Either way, it is more mellifluous than Rose, do you not agree?”

  “Josephine Buonoparte,” she said, trying it out. “Yes, I believe you are correct, Monsieur.”

  “Now, try saying it a little differently: Josephine Bonaparte.”

  “Bonaparte?” she asked. “Are you changing your nam
e as well as mine?”

  “Only the spelling, just the deletion of two letters. But it brings out the French provenance. Don’t you agree?”

  She laughed and said, “I do agree, Monsieur.”

  He stood and raised his glass of champagne to everyone at the table, who raised theirs in turn, saying, “To long life and infinite happiness for Josephine and Napoleon Bonaparte!”

  The next day, she wrote to tell Aimée about her new name. In a rare moment of reflection she thought it interesting that both she and her cousin were beginning the second half of their lives with new names.

  Chapter 14

  July 12, 1798

  During the first nine years of Selim’s reign, he slowly modified many of the old traditions of protocol and dress that he viewed as cumbersome and antiquated. He replaced elaborate formal headdresses of turbans or conical hats with the simpler fez. The meticulously proscribed combinations of pantaloons, robes, vests and belts disappeared in favor of simple tunics and leggings. The formal royal reception room in the Divan, where previously visitors had been carried before the Sultan, was now only used for occasions of state. Several new informal rooms within the palace were regularly used for meetings with military and political advisors. All of these changes began moving the Empire towards the modernity he expected the new century to bring. They also helped to increase Selim’s availability to those who ran the government and his participation in governance.

  The messenger, who now stood before the Sultan in one of these informal rooms, had crossed the Mediterranean from Cairo to Ephesus, roughly five hundred and twenty nautical miles, in a little more than five days, and then ridden over land another three hundred miles to Istanbul. Growing unrest in the Southern portions of the Empire—Syria and Egypt—had inspired the new relay system that utilized Baba’s fastest ships for crossing the Mediterranean and men on horseback riding between stations exchanging tired mounts for fresh ones. Replacements at the stations relieved exhausted riders, and the peerless Arabian horses enabled riders to travel up to seventy-five miles a day on land, while with good wind a ship could travel more than one hundred nautical miles in a twenty-four hour period. The entire trip had taken only ten days to complete—half the time of the overland route.