The French Sultana

by Zia Wesley

  The group of men, carrying the lifeless body of Selim and led by the Sultan Mustapha, walked unimpeded through the palace as servants and purveyors scattered away into the shadows.

  ~ ~ ~

  A serving woman burst into the seraglio asking for the Valide. In moments, Nakshidil stood before her. The woman fell to her knees and said breathlessly, “Some Pashas are walking with the Sultan Mustapha towards the Divan. They carry the body of Sultan Selim.”

  “Is he alive?” she asked.

  “I do not think so,” the woman answered, and began to weep.

  Without hesitation, Nakshidil ran through the secret passageway that led to the “eye of the Sultan,” her secret observation room in the Divan. She opened the door quietly and looked down through the latticework into the room where the small group stood. Selim’s lifeless body had been laid on a bed of cushions with his arms crossed on his chest. She could not take her eyes from it and bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.

  “Please, Sire,” Baicatar said, inviting Mustapha to sit on his throne. “Now you will summon your minions and instruct them to find Mahmud and bring him to you... alive. We will wait here until they have done so.”

  “I am afraid, as I said earlier, that you are too late. I have already sent my men to find Mahmud... and to strangle him.” He picked a small bit of dust off his trouser leg, then looked up sullenly. “So, you see, you cannot kill me.”

  “We shall await his arrival, either way,” the Pasha said.

  Nakshidil held her breath and pressed both hands over her mouth lest she scream. Selim was dead! She turned and fled the room, running down the passageway as fast as she could, frantically trying to think what Mahmud meant when he said, “the old chimney.” Which old chimney, where? If they had already found him, he would also be dead.

  She ran through the seraglio using the back entrances and little-known passageways used mostly for secret assignations—and treason, she thought. She reminded herself to be quiet in case Mustapha’s men were looking in the same places. But they cannot be inside, she thought, it is haram. She entered one of the main bathing areas, and stood still to catch her breath and think. There is nowhere to hide here except maybe the small servants’ rooms. She searched every tiny room and alcove, but did not find her son. Leaving the hamam, she moved quietly down another hallway, trying not to run or cause attention, and slipped into another, smaller bath area. Checking the outer rooms first, she found nothing but the neatly hanging garments belonging to a few women.

  Nakshidil tried hard to focus. Chimneys, she thought. She had an idea. Leaving the outer room, she looked for the entrance to where the fires that heat the water were stoked—the furnace room. It was one of the few places within the seraglio that she had never been. There had to be a door somewhere that led to stairs beneath the water. She had seen the halberdiers bringing stacks of wood to the entrance from the outside, but where might there be an inside entrance?

  She saw a familiar stairway that led up to the roof of the bath and walked towards it. There was a door she had never noticed before, beneath the stairs, which she opened. The odor of old, long-cold fires filled her nostrils, and a dark stairway led down. She had no lamp, and pressed the palms of her hands against the walls on either side of the stairs to carefully descend. There were cobwebs everywhere, indicating the entrance had not been used in a while. Suddenly overcome by a feeling of hopelessness, she sat down and began to cry. “Mahmud, my son,” she said sobbing.

  “Mother?”

  “Mahmud? Is that really you?”

  The dark form of a man walked out of the shadows towards her with extended hands. Barely able to see him in the gloom, she grabbed his hands. Feeling his warmth and knowing he was alive, not a ghost, she hugged him and cried. “Mahmud,” she said again.

  “I hid in the old chimney,” he said. “No one ever knew that I’d found it when I was a little boy. It was my secret place.”

  “Thank God you’re alive,” she said. “They killed Selim.”

  “What?” he whispered, holding her at arm’s length.

  “He is gone, Mahmud.”

  Grief and anger flooded his body all at once. “Mustapha shall pay for this,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Right now, there is no time to grieve,” Nakshidil said. “We must learn as much as we can of our situation. There is only a small group of our people here, in the reception room with Mustapha. You must show yourself to them, let them know you are alive. I will go with you through the secret passage.”

  She followed him up the dark stairs and they made their way back to the “eye of the Sultan.”

  Chapter 20

  Immediately after delivering Selim’s message, Havi returned to the Cage. The Sultan’s body was gone, but his brother and the assassin still lay where they had fallen. Caring nothing at all for the latter, he knelt beside his brother. Sala had not just been his brother, he had been the only other human being with whom he could communicate—until Selim. He gently touched the expressionless face, the duplicate of his own. Tears filled his eyes and he knew he should alert the captain of the guards, but did not want to leave his brother’s side. What will become of me now, Sala? I avenged your death, but that will not bring you back. No one else ever heard his thoughts. Filled with grief, he held his brother’s body to his own and wept, as his eyes searched the room for something that might ease his pain. He saw the tiny writing table and his heart filled with hope. I can read and write, he thought.

  He picked his brother’s body up and carried him out into the sunlight where he gently laid him down on the soft grass. Then he walked back to the Cage, into the cell that Selim had occupied for almost a year, and sat at the little table where he’d learned the magic of letters.

  Picking up the pen, he dipped it into the ink and began to write. When he finished, Havi folded the note and carefully gathered all the pieces of paper on which Selim had written. He put them into the wooden box the Valide had brought, along with the pen and ink, then left the Cage and walked towards the seraglio. Inside the kitchen, he found the old serving woman and handed her the box along with the note that read, “Valide.” She looked into his eyes and nodded. Having completed his task, he walked back to where his brother lay and sat next to him to await whatever may come next. There was no longer a need to stand guard on the empty cage.

  ~ ~ ~

  Nakshidil watched from the “eye of the Sultan,” as the secret door behind the throne opened and Mahmud appeared. All of the men stopped talking and stared at the soot-covered apparition with bright blue eyes. When it took a step towards them, they raised their swords.

  Mahmud slowly brought his hands to his heart in greeting. “I am Mahmud, son of Abdul Hamid,” he said evenly.

  The Pasha and his men fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the floor.

  “You are not real!” Mustapha screamed. “You are dead... a ghost.”

  “I assure you,” Mahmud replied. “I am quite alive, unlike Sultan Selim, whose death you shall pay for with the forfeiture of your freedom.”

  “Allow me to take him to the Cage, Sire,” one of the men said.

  “Please,” Mahmud replied. “And stay with him until I release you.”

  “You cannot,” Mustapha said. “You are nothing, no one, you cannot command anyone, you have no power.”

  Three men picked Mustapha up as he kicked and screamed like an angry child. He continued hurling insults and threats as they carried him out of the room. “My guards will kill you... the Janissaries will slaughter everyone... you will all die and I will put your stinking heads on spikes at the gate!”

  The doors closed behind them, silencing his shrill cries.

  “Please, Sire,” the Pasha said. “Your presence gives us hope. I have fifty thousand men camped outside the city, and Baba Ben Osman’s fleet is ready to sail into the harbor at my signal. The people will rally behind you to overthrow Mustapha. Are you prepared to take the throne?”

 
; Mahmud looked up at the latticework walls, knowing his mother watched from above. “I am,” he said.

  “Please take your seat, your grace,” the Pasha said, indicating the raised platform.

  Mahmud regarded the platform for a moment and shook his head. “No, I will not sit on that throne. Please bring me the chair Sultan Selim sat upon. It was moved to the anteroom.”

  Three men left and returned moments later carrying an ornate Empire-style chair.

  “Remove that,” Mahmud said pointing to platform Mustapha had been reclining on. “And place the chair there.”

  It took only moments.

  Mahmud addressed the pasha. “The former Sultan Mustapha murdered the rightful Sultan Selim along with thousands of other innocent men, women and children. For these crimes, I demand he be judged by the Ulema. Until that time, he will be held prisoner in the Cage.”

  “As you command, Sire” the pasha replied.

  Mahmud slowly walked to the throne. Standing before it, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent prayer. He turned around and slowly sat down.

  Nakshidil watched as her son took his rightful place. At a terrible cost, she thought. Selim is dead—the blood that was spilled was his. She did not allow herself to weep because she knew once she did she might never stop.

  The men stood and made their obeisance.

  “If I may speak freely, Sire?” the Pasha asked.

  “Of course.”

  “The Sultan may wish to bathe before receiving any other guests.”

  Mahmud looked down at his blackened robes and smiled. “Thank you, Sir, I believe you are correct.”

  ~ ~ ~

  That evening, after moving back into the apartments of the Valide Sultana, Nakshidil allowed herself the luxury of tears. Her lover was gone and the forty days of mourning were about to begin. She was going to need every one of them to come to terms with her loss. The only thing that helped to alleviate her grief was her fear for Mahmud’s life.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following morning, she went to visit her son.

  “I want to show you something,” she said, handing him the carved wooden box containing Selim’s writings. “These are Selim’s last thoughts, which I know he would want you to have. And there is one other thing—a note written by one of his guards.”

  “Written?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Selim taught him and his twin brother how to write and read. I’ve no doubt he helped to save your life. Selim’s assassin was stabbed by two different blades.”

  Mahmud read the note written in a child’s hand: Please let me serve the true Sultan Mahmud as I served Sultan Selim. To guard his life with my own. Your faithful, Havi.

  “How extraordinary,” Mahmud said. “Is this the man who guards Mustapha in the Cage?”

  “That is something you may want to ensure,” his mother replied.

  “Yes. Right now, I want him as close to Mustapha as possible,” he said. “In the future, I will keep him near to me.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The Pasha’s army wasted no time. Fifty thousand troops marched into Istanbul, as Baba’s fleet of ships stood in the harbor nearby. The Janissaries revolted more violently than ever, and a full-scale civil war began. Citizens who wanted Mahmud on the throne now had the military backing of Selim’s army. The Janissaries remained determined to reinstate Mustapha.

  The fighting took over the streets of Istanbul for almost four months with heavy losses on all sides. Those in favor of Mahmud had one great advantage in Mahmud himself, for he inspired loyalty. Ordinary citizens, happy with modernization, fought to keep what they had gained. The new army was better equipped than the Janissaries, and had the support of the Royal Ottoman Navy. The Janissaries had never encountered such fierce opposition from their own countrymen.

  In a final desperate attempt, the Janissaries attacked the Palace again.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the hostile forces attempted to breach the palace walls, Nakshidil pleaded with her son to act. “Mahmud, as the one who brought you into this world, I beg you to heed my words. Mustapha must die. It is kismet, my son—it has been written.”

  Mahmud knew she was right. The Janissaries would never capitulate. The only way to permanently end the bloody struggle for power was to put an end to the choice. He sent an order to Havi to strangle the only remaining heir.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sultan Mustapha IV was buried next to the Hagia Sophia mosque without ceremony, and no one openly observed the official period of mourning.

  The Ulema’s investigation revealed Cavus Hamza’s identity as a Janissary spy and clearly implicated the Janissaries in Sultan Selim’s death. As the intricate web of intrigue, lies and crimes began to unravel, Hamza’s role in the death of the Circassian Kadine also came to light. The Janissaries would be held accountable for their participation in both murders, and those responsible would be sentenced to death by hanging. In response to the irrefutable evidence, the Ulema cut all remaining ties of that alliance and gave their full support to Sultan Mahmud.

  The immediate threat of the Janissaries had been eliminated, yet they remained. In a private meeting with his trusted advisors, Sultan Mahmud asked, “What do you recommend we do with the deceitful, untrustworthy lot of them?”

  “We cannot simply abolish the Janissaries,” one man said. “It is not within our power. I’ve no idea how we might rein them in. Many have attempted to do so in the past, to no avail. There are forty thousand, and they are armed.”

  “Have you no suggestions?” the Sultan asked.

  “May we discuss this further amongst ourselves?” the advisor responded.

  “By all means. But please know that I will put an end to their murderous acts and sedition. The Janissaries may survive, but hear me well, their rule is over from this day forward.”

  Chapter 21

  Paris, March 13, 1808

  Chilling winds swept off the Seine and rattled the tall glass windows in the formal dining room of the Emperor and Empress of France. They dined alone at the ornately carved olivewood table, an unusual occurrence suggested by Napoleon that Josephine duly noted. They had not discussed the bastard son of his mistress for months, and now all of France knew of his existence. Citizens argued the topic of a royal heir in cafés, and newspaper editorials boldly suggested divorce. It seemed that every French citizen, including the Emperor, wanted an heir.

  “Will you submit to their demands?” Josephine asked.

  “I fear I must, my dear. My duty is to the Empire, and she requires an heir.”

  She was about to say, “And what of your duty to me?” but instantly realized how foolish it would sound to put herself on the same footing as the Empire. Instead she said, “Do our marriage vows mean so little to you?”

  “They mean the world to me, as do you, but they do not preclude my responsibility as an Emperor. As the Empress, surely, you cannot disagree with that.”

  “How difficult it must be to choose your country above your heart,” she said sarcastically.

  “Unfortunately, my heart lies with both. Please try to understand that I am asking for your compliance in this. The people also love you, and I would not turn away from you or dismiss you for any sake—even though I may be legally sworn to another.”

  She rose angrily from her chair in a sudden motion, causing it to fall loudly to the floor. Three servants came running in and, heedless of their presence, she began a furious tirade. “You fear the people will turn from you because they love me!” she screamed. “They love me because I am one of them, not an outsider, a foreigner whom they do not fully trust. Wasn’t that why you married me—and now you want my compliance in my own divorce?”

  Overcome with emotion, she found herself having difficulty breathing. She leaned forward on the table to steady herself, and all the color drained out of her face as she fainted.

  Dearest cousin Aimée,

  I enclose herewith two letters written to you with no way to post. I held them hop
ing a way would present itself, and so it has in the person of our Minister of Oriental Trade. I have added the more recent musings at the end.

  September 1, 1807

  I was desperate to receive news of you from Baron Sébastiani upon his return to Paris, and horrified to learn of the events that led to the Sultan’s imprisonment. I hoped and prayed that you and your son were safe and, thankfully, received confirmation of this by subsequent reports. Still, I know little of the actual details, only that which the fleeing officers brought with them. Most importantly, I know you are both safe. Please write to enlighten me if you are able.

  Your loving cousin,

  Rose

  March 21, 1808

  Dearest cousin,

  War again threatens our beloved France, this time at the behest of my husband. He has taken Spain and plans to put his brother Joseph on the throne. It appears our Empire is not yet large enough to suit his need.

  My circumstance has also become jeopardized, perhaps not as desperately as yours. My inability to produce an heir has driven a wedge between my husband and me. Beyond that, it has also caused an extraordinary “call to arms” among citizens. It pains him greatly to put country before me, but this is what his duty and our people now demand. They and he wish to see the continuance of Empire through his bloodline of sons, sons I shall never bear. He has asked me to acquiesce fully in this matter and assured me that my title and position will not be changed. It causes us both much aggravation and grief. Now he must discern how to extricate himself. This may not be easy, as two years ago he foolishly enacted a statute within an imperial decree forbidding divorce for members of the imperial family. His advisors and solicitors ponder this daily, and I am sure will eventually discover a useful ambiguity.

  As to whether or not the Holy Father may be willing to grant divorce, we do not know. Few men have ever refused my husband anything and so, this too shall most likely come to pass.

  I remain as ever, your devoted cousin,