Two Empresses

by Brandy Purdy

  I knew what was expected of me, so I put on a gown of silver lamé and my diadem of teardrop pearls and diamond leaves and stood on the balcony and watched the red, blue, and gold fireworks exploding in the sky high above Paris. I drank a glass of champagne and toasted the Emperor, the Empress, and the newborn King of Rome. Then I went to my desk.

  I wish you joy, I wrote to Bonaparte, but I must have wept a thousand tears over those four little words. I will always love you! my heart cried out but my hand didn’t dare write. I had no pride, but I had to pretend I did. He always wanted me to be brave, to be worthy of him. He had what he wanted; he would never repent of his mistake and take me back now. The divorce and his marriage to Marie Louise were set in stone, cemented by the birth of this royal child.

  “You are now only a memory to him, no longer a dream!” I sobbed. “Adieu, Josephine!”

  PART 4

  NAKSHIDIL

  CHAPTER 33

  In the morning I awoke, nested in silken sheets, with Abdul Hamid leaning over my pillow, smiling down at me, with love in his eyes as he stroked my golden hair, fanning it out over the pillows as he whispered my new name—Nakshidil. “When Lâle comes for you in a little while, you are to say this word to him . . .” he said, and he told me another new Turkish word.

  It was too much trouble to struggle back into my French finery, so Abdul Hamid gallantly gave me his silken robe, the one he had worn the night before. I marveled at how even up close it was almost impossible to glimpse the color of the silk beneath the dazzling embroidery. He said it was mine to keep, to have it made into whatever garment I wished, and if the amount proved insufficient I had only to let him know and I would have more of it. “It will please me very much to see you wear it,” he said. He then pressed a sparkling yellow diamond, the pure color of morning sunshine, into my hand. It was so big it completely filled my palm. He said he wanted me to have it because it reminded him of the sun in my hair, and he gave me a little velvet pouch filled with smaller white diamonds of various sizes, courtiers that I might have set around this sun king of gems.

  When Lâle came for me, I was standing there in the Sultan’s gold and silver robe with my hair flowing down like liquid gold about my hips, holding the yellow diamond in one hand and the velvet pouch in the other.

  I did as the Sultan told me and spoke the whispered word aloud: “Ikbal.”

  Lâle’s jaw dropped so low I thought it would slip its joints. He glanced past me at Abdul Hamid.

  “Ikbal.” The Sultan nodded and smiled.

  This time, as I trod the Golden Path, I held my head up high and smiled in triumph.

  * * *

  It was unprecedented. After only one night I had gone from being barely an odalisque, one of five hundred concubines all living in constant hope of catching the Sultan’s eye and most never succeeding, or a gzde (in the eye), noticed but not yet bedded, to the rank of royal favorite—ikbal.

  How did I do it? Everyone wanted to know. I knew nothing! I was an infidel, a Giaour. I knew nothing of Turkish customs and etiquette; my vocabulary didn’t even consist of a handful of words. I was a virgin, entirely ignorant and untutored in the arts of love; before that night I hadn’t the faintest idea how to please a man. Though a Sultan might enjoy many virgins in his lifetime, they were never sent to him without some degree of schooling in the erotic arts. Yet not only had I been given a jewel, a yellow diamond, of such startling rarity and quality; I had also been given the Sultan’s robe of special silk.

  Back in the dormitory when Lâle tried to gently take it from me and I told him what the Sultan had said, his knees completely failed him and he sank like a stone down onto my divan. The women clustered around us were equally dumbfounded when Lâle told them what I had just said.

  I didn’t understand. What was all the fuss about? I thought it very kind, and generous, of the Sultan to give me a robe of such costly and beautiful silk.

  “This kind of silk is called seraser,” Lâle explained. “There is none finer in all the world; it is encrusted with embroidery of real gold and silver threads so thickly that even when you hold it to your eye it is hard to glimpse the color of the silk beneath. The very best of its kind, such as this, is has ulhas, the purest of the pure. No one but the Sultan is allowed to wear it unless he says so, and Abdul Hamid has given you that right. Women have served him for years and even borne his children and never attained that honor. Do you have any idea how special you are?”

  “You are saying I could have a future as rich and bright as these silver and gold threads”—I glided my hand over the glimmering material—“if I embrace it,” I hugged Abdul Hamid’s robe close about me.

  “We understand each other perfectly.” Lâle smiled. “Lady Nakshidil.”

  * * *

  My education then began in earnest; I seemed to go straight from the Sultan’s bed into the schoolroom. That very morning the women started almost at once upon my vocabulary. As I was dressed for the day they taught me the names of the various garments, pointing to either the ones I was putting on or those they were themselves wearing: gömlek (chemise), salvar (trousers), entari (the décolleté bosom-baring gown with its full skirt slit open in front to reveal the trousers beneath), kaftani (caftan), mintan (short embroidered jacket), yelek (vest), kusak (sash), yasmak (face veil), hotoz (a tall round felt hat with a flattened top), takke (cap), tulbend (turban), sorguç (turban ornament), feridje (cloak), sipip (slippers), and kub kob, the high-soled wooden shoes I had worn to protect my feet that first night in the bath. Though I already knew a few of the words from when I had helped Abdul Hamid disrobe, I didn’t let the women know that.

  They then began to point to one another, telling me their names: Zehra, Safiye, Besame, Aysha, Kösem, Esmee, Seza, Zeyneb, Nefi-zar, Zernigar, Güfem, Zibifer, Tabisafa, Kashilmar, Mihrimah, and Simandi.

  There was so much to learn and I was determined to sop it all up like a sponge. I was a firm believer in the old adage knowledge is power.

  The harem was a world full of rules, not unlike the convent had been, only here we were encouraged to glorify, not mortify, the flesh. Nakedness held no shame here, lovemaking was openly and frankly discussed, odalisques attended the School of Love and were instructed in all the erotic nuances, and women routinely practiced upon each other in the hopes of refining their skills; to be ready in case they were summoned to the Sultan’s bed was the excuse that was invariably given. No woman would openly admit that she preferred another woman’s caresses since the sole purpose of the harem was to please a man, one man—the Sultan. Such a bold admission might lead to dismissal or even death for any woman who was not to all appearances dedicating every aspect of her life to the Sultan’s pleasure, whether he ever noticed her or not.

  Just like a convent, the harem was a world of closed walls and veils. No lady of the harem was allowed to show her face unveiled to any man except the Sultan, not even the princes. The black eunuchs, the “Keepers of the Roses,” the “Guardians of Delight,” did not count, as castration had deprived them of the vital male part in early childhood long before they had ever known the pleasures a woman’s body had to offer. The burning sands they were buried in from the waist down immediately after the operation were said to burn all semblance of desire out of them. But this was not true; many were bitter, melancholy beings tormented by pangs of phantom desires they could not act upon, much as a man who loses an arm still sometimes feels a maddening itch where his elbow used to be. The harem women knew this and some took a fiendish delight in tormenting their protectors with kisses and caresses, flaunted displays of naked flesh, self-pleasure, and overt Sapphic dalliances.

  On the rare occasions when women were allowed outside the harem walls for picnics or boating excursions, they must always be veiled and attended by several strong and vigilant black eunuchs, enough to thwart any attempt at escape as well as offer protection against any threats or temptations a beautiful woman given a rare taste of freedom might encounter in the open air.


  Some women in the past had been known to cunningly make use of the “bundle women,” as the Jewish peddler women who were sometimes allowed inside the harem to sell cheap, gaudy fabrics, baubles, bangles, and trinkets were called, bribing them with jewels, or playing upon their sympathies, to smuggle out messages and arrange assignations. On rare occasion a woman had even been known to smuggle a lover into the harem disguised as a bundle woman. There was a story about a sultan who had caught his favorite in a closet with a man she had snuck inside in this manner. Without opening the door, he had simply thrust in his saber, again and again. He didn’t stop until their screams died and their blood, mingled like their bodies had been, flowed out in a river of red from beneath the door.

  There were daily lessons in the Turkish language for all newly acquired odalisques. Since it violated their religion to enslave a fellow Muslim there were no native Turkish girls in the Sultan’s harem. All were foreign infidels, mostly mountain and peasant girls from Russia, Croatia, Armenia, Romania, Circassia, Nubia, Egypt, Georgia, Syria, and Greece, and the occasional Spaniard or Italian. They were either abducted by bands of marauders or pirates as I had been—such men always had a shrewd eye open for pretty girls ripe for a rich man’s harem, cherry-picking the best for the Sultan—or sold by parents who would rather see their daughters the concubines of a rich man than the wives of poor ones. Some orphans and others with a mind of either a practical or lazy bent, desiring the best for themselves, came willingly to the Sultan’s harem, some of them starry-eyed with dreams of becoming his favorite, others merely desiring a life of luxury and ease, more comfortable than milking cows or slaving over a cookstove. Each girl was given a new, Turkish, name and ordered to forget the past and think only of the future, to reinvent herself anew.

  Once the rudiments of the Turkish tongue had been acquired there were daily lessons in music, dancing, embroidery, calligraphy, singing and the recitation of poetry, eating gracefully with the right hand, never allowing food to touch the left, and utilizing only three fingertips, the complex coffee ritual, the all-important arts of love, and religious instruction, since all were expected to forget their past beliefs and become Muslims themselves. Though many, like me, secretly remained true to their own faith and only went through the motions of converting. But even if it was only playacting, as long as we did it gracefully and respectfully it was enough. Appearances in the harem were everything; few rarely looked beyond the surface for depth and meaning.

  For those who wished to learn a useful trade, especially plainer girls with little hope of ever captivating a sultan, there were lessons in music and making confectionary, perfumes, cosmetics, calligraphy, jewelry, cooking, and practical as well as ornamental sewing, and many became highly skilled at the most ornately detailed embroidery and carpet and tapestry weaving. Some even studied sciences such as astronomy, horticulture, mathematics, and medicine. A plain face didn’t necessarily bar the door to a prominent position in the harem. If they displayed intelligence and ability, such women might still rise to be Mistress of the Robes, Keeper of the Baths, Mistress of the Sherbets, Keeper of the Jewels, Mistress of the Kitchens, Keeper of the Storerooms, or Reader of the Koran. And, like the moon-faced lady in blue I had met my first night in the harem, one fortunate female might become the Kahya Kadin, the Mistress of the Harem, if she passed her thirtieth year and displayed great resourcefulness, strength of character, and a talent for administration.

  There was a strict hierarchy in the harem. Odalisques were the lowest-ranking concubines, those who lived in daily, desperate hope that the Sultan would someday drop his handkerchief for them. Since there were generally about five hundred, most were doomed to lifelong disappointment. Many he never noticed at all; others he bedded and then forgot. Ikbals were the favorites, and those who bore him a son were called kadins.

  Sultana Valide was the position every woman aspired to. A man might have as many women as he pleased, but he would only ever have one mother, and she occupied a cherished position in his heart and home, whether it be a hovel or a palace. The Sultan’s mother ruled with absolute power alongside her son. She was the most powerful and influential woman in Turkey, her rank equivalent to that of an empress. She was the only person her son truly trusted. Her rooms adjoined his; she was his confidante and counselor in all things. As the Veiled Crown and Queen of the Veiled Heads, she ruled the harem and every concubine who entered it must have her approval. Her apartments were the heart of the harem, its four hundred rooms were situated around the Valide’s courtyard, and she knew everything that happened. The Kizlar Aga was her second in command, and the Kahya Kadin third, and they kept her well informed. Everyone from the lowliest to the highest hungered for the Valide’s friendship. She was showered every day with gifts, flattery, praise, secrets, and useful information: anything to win her favor, and, through her, the Sultan’s.

  Since Abdul Hamid’s mother was long dead, there was currently no Sultana Valide; the Kizlar Aga ruled the harem in her stead, aided by the Kahya Kadin.

  All the women who had borne the Sultan a son were deadly rivals. There was no friendship between the kadins, only malice and mistrust. Murders and poisonings, of infants and mothers alike, were far from uncommon within the harem walls, or even outside. A story was often told of how many years ago one jealous and ambitious kadin, spying a rival sitting on a stone overlooking the sea with her infant son on her lap, simply walked up behind her and shoved them both down to drown, thus getting rid of both of them and bringing her own son one step closer to the throne.

  Often, unless a woman was highly favored and the Sultan decided to grant her the honor of motherhood, any odalisque or ikbal who fell pregnant was forced to submit to an abortion. Limiting the number of legitimate heirs reduced the killings and scheming somewhat but never eliminated it entirely. As long as there were women in the harem, there was always the possibility of preferment and pregnancy. Abdul Hamid, though he had twenty daughters, only had two living sons, thirteen-year-old Mustafa and an infant boy called Mahmoud; all the others had died in infancy or childhood, either innocently or through treachery.

  To keep the heir to the throne safe, for centuries it had been the custom to incarcerate him in a gilded prison of sorts called the Kefess, the Golden Cage. To safeguard the heir from assassins, sent by ambitious kadins desirous of moving their sons up in the line of succession, these princes would enter the Kefess at the age of seven and abide there in splendid isolation, seen and spoken to only by their physician and tutors, and, sometimes, the Sultan. To ease their boredom, they were pleasured by specially selected and sterilized concubines, who, like the white eunuchs who served them, were mute with slit tongues and perforated eardrums, to render them impervious to bribes, corruption, and gossip. These princes only came out of their cage to be buried or to ascend the throne, and by then the silence had driven some of them mad. Abdul Hamid was forty-five years old when he came out of the Kefess; he hated it so much he promptly abolished the custom, thus sparing his nephew Selim “this living tomb of loneliness and silence.”

  The kadins who bore daughters were safer; these girls were valuable marriage pawns in the game of allegiances and alliances, but not deemed important enough to kill for. Many married outside the palace walls while others remained in the harem all their lives like pampered, overfed cats, the more industrious ones rising to an administrative position or cultivating a particular skill. Some of the more sensually inclined sultanas, as these princesses were called, behaved almost like sultans, acquiring little harems of their own comprised of favorite women. They even parodied the handkerchief ceremony to announce whom they had chosen to share their bed and had golden tiles laid in the corridors leading to their doors to make their own Golden Paths.

  The most powerful and feared kadin of all was Mustafa’s mother, the dark and dangerous Senieperver; she was determined to be Sultana Valide whatever the cost. She despised the shy, gentle dreamer Selim, who stood in the path between Mustafa and the t
hrone, and any woman Abdul Hamid favored instantly earned Senieperver’s enmity. “I am nothing if I am not first here!” she would fume, pacing the floors like a furious, caged tigress, whenever the Sultan availed himself of his harem. Sometimes she was so angry that she slashed at hangings with a dagger or threw anything within reach at her maidservants, pets, dwarves, and the eunuchs. She would even beat and bite them if she was mad enough and could not get at the rival who had provoked her rage. She had once, in a blind rage when a certain odalisque was summoned three nights in a row to Abdul Hamid’s bed, thrown her pet monkey in the fireplace and her favorite dwarf out a window.

  Sooner or later the women Abdul Hamid favored over Senieperver always sickened and died, young, healthy, and beautiful, in their prime, shining bright one moment, snuffed out like candles the next. Senieperver was fascinated by botany, particularly plants with poisonous qualities. She was rumored to have poisoned Selim at least once, but she covered her tracks so well that not even the Prince’s Greek physician could say with certainty that Selim’s illness had not been a natural one. But every time Selim had a stomach upset or a fever all eyes turned warily to Senieperver, all wondering if she was responsible and if she would succeed this time.

  Mustafa, though only thirteen, was a thoroughly spoiled, lethargic, and fat, greedy piglet entirely in his sow’s power. When his tutors tried to teach him, he threw tantrums, as well as books and inkwells at them. Sometimes he even bit them. He would never make a politician, only a puppet, wholly content to let others rule the empire in his name. To him, being sultan meant wealth, greatness, and power, the right to put himself first and please himself always in all things, but he would keep it all within his hands, his bounty showered only on a loyal precious few, never used for the greater good, to help the Turkish people. On the contrary, he would bleed them dry with taxes to pay for his excesses, and if they didn’t pay the Janissaries would make sure they bled out in agony. Through Mustafa, Senieperver would have absolute power, and the very thought was enough to make the whole harem tremble, for she was a woman with a long memory who formed grudges readily and never forgot or forgave.