by Zia Wesley
“But Baba, I thought that only women were allowed in the harem.”
“Of course only women, and eunuchs to guard them.”
“Eunuchs?” she asked unfamiliar with the term.
“Yes, eunuchs. Do you not know what a eunuch is?”
“No, Baba, I do not.”
“Oh, well then.” He thought for a moment. “A eunuch is like a gelding. One would not trust a stallion to guard the mares, eh?”
Aimée heard this information with incredulity. “Do you mean a man who has been gelded?” she asked.
“Yes, dearest, it is a common practice in civilized societies. The Italians cut young boys to preserve their angelic voices,” he replied, popping a date into his mouth. “I believe that the black eunuchs also lack the rest of their manly package, or he would not trust them so implicitly. It is a dangerous procedure, but those who survive become quite valuable. The white eunuchs, who guard the rest of the palace, are only gelded.”
Aimée took a bite of a fig and thought about this. Having no first-hand experience of a man’s anatomy but knowing horses well, the thought of gelding or the other operation to which Baba alluded, made her cringe.
Unaware of her reaction, Baba continued eating and talking. “The Kizlar Agasi is the Sultan’s most trusted servant. He has enormous wealth, influence and power, as much or more than any Pasha and because of this, I am told the odalisques all vie for his favor and friendship. You can see that were he not a eunuch, the women would be throwing themselves at his feet.”
She envisioned a prison with tiny rooms, each occupied by one woman, and in the corridors, uniformed soldiers with muskets resting on their shoulders, slowly marching up and down.
“So, there are many of these eunuch guards?” she asked.
“I do not know exactly how many,” he said, placing a tiny cake into his mouth. “But enough to serve the needs of four or five hundred women.”
“Four or five hundred?” Aimée stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Do you mean to say that the Sultan has four or five hundred wives?”
“Yes, somewhere around that number, but they are not legally wives as such. The Sultan does not marry.”
This information had a strange effect on Aimée. On one hand, it was appalling to imagine one man with so many women. How incredibly barbaric! On the other hand, to be one of four or five hundred women had a certain quality of safety in it. She imagined that being one of so many might hold the advantage of her not being quite so obvious. In the event that she disliked the Sultan’s attentions, there were hundreds of other women from which he could choose. Also, she would not be alone in a strange, new place. It might even bear semblance to her life at the convent.
With this in mind she asked, “Baba, do the women weave and sew and embroider throughout the day?”
“Oh, I have no idea how they occupy their time in the harem. Considering the Sultan’s wealth, they could do any number of things—anything they cared to do, I imagine.”
“Anything except leave,” she mused.
“But sweetness, why would anyone want to leave paradise? You simply cannot imagine the magnificent scope of the seraglio. Everything one could ever want is there or easily obtained.”
Baba was right. It was impossible for a girl from a small, unsophisticated island, who had spent the last four years in a convent, to imagine the excessive opulence and unlimited wealth of the Sultan’s harem. In fact, it would be impossible for any European to imagine, because none had actually seen it firsthand. Most Europeans imagined the Turkish harem as an exotic, frightening place of depravity, sin, orgies and heartless, absolute rule. Many pictured it as a kind of prison/brothel, as Aimée had when she first heard the word “harem” from her cousin Rose’s lips.
Oh, if Rose could only see me now.
“Baba, may I send a letter to my cousin Rose in France?”
“Of course, but it may take quite a while to reach her.”
“No matter. I want to let my family know that I am... safe and well.”
~ ~ ~
Later that night, Aimée relaxed in the bath, which she had come to thoroughly enjoy. She tried to imagine what her life might have been had she completed the journey home to Martinique. Despite her affection for Mr. Braugham, she felt certain that her uncle would never have consented to their marriage. How had she ever deceived herself into thinking that he would? Consequently, her prospects would have been limited to an older man seeking companionship or a widower needing someone to raise his children. Only a few such men might have resided on Martinique. More than likely, she would not have married at all, but remained the “maiden aunt,” living her life in loneliness on her uncle’s plantation and caring for her aging relatives. How terribly painful might it have been to live in close proximity to Mr. Braugham? The thought made her shiver beneath the warm water. No, that would never do.
She made her way to the opposite end of the pool and ducked beneath the fall of hot water. She could have returned to the convent and taken her vows, she thought. That had been her original plan. She tried to imagine how that might feel.
When she was completely honest with herself, none of the scenarios any longer appealed to her—none offered the possibilities of romance, luxury or excitement that her new life promised to hold. She would have the company of hundreds of other women from countries around the world, not unlike the convent. But, the surroundings would be magnificently luxurious: jewels and fine clothing, servants, a tutor for language and people to carry out her every wish. She loved the idea of all of that. Baba had told her that if the Sultan fancied her, she would become rich, important and powerful. Also, the mother of the Sultan was the most important and revered woman in the empire. Hadn’t Euphemia David predicted that she would bear a son who would eventually rule?
Clearly, the seraglio held more enticing possibilities than Martinique, Nantes or even Paris. Although Aimée would regret never seeing her aunt, uncle or cousins again, her attachment to them was not as strong as it might have been had they been parents and siblings. Perhaps her practical nature allowed her to accept her fate, or possibly a sense of adventure that had never been given full reign. Whatever the case, Aimée felt more excited by the promise her future held than by anything her former live might offer.
~ ~ ~
October 22, 1781
Dearest Rose,
I hardly know where to begin. Firstly, I am well and residing in the home of a benefactor in the Port of Algiers. He is a kindly elder gentleman named Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, who holds great influence and wealth, and is cousin to the Turkish Sultan. How I came to be here, you will remember, was foretold quite accurately by Euphemia David. However, no harm has come to me, and I believe none will.
I am preparing to enter the seraglio of the Sultan of Turkey, and understand there will be no communication allowed from there. Please do not concern yourself for my well-being, as I have made the decision to do so of my own free will and believe I shall be well cared for, even pampered. From what I have already seen, the Turks are not barbarians as we have been taught. In fact, they appear highly civilized and quite charming.
I wonder how Da Angelique is faring as a free woman and how my fellow traveler Mr. Angus Braugham likes his new position on Martinique. He was very attentive to me on our journey, and I would like you to convey my deepest regards to him when next you write home.
As there is not enough time for you to answer this letter before I depart for Istanbul, I have no way of knowing what your present situation may be, but pray it has improved with the birth of your second child. I also encourage you to take hope in the prophecy (for you), as the most extraordinary part of mine has indeed come to pass.
Please convey the good news of my situation to everyone in our family and know that I will always love you and miss you, my dearest, dearest cousin. If ever I have the opportunity to write again, I shall. Until then, I remain,
Your loving cousin,
Aimée
~ ~
~
At the end of the sixth week, Baba informed Aimée that the ship would be ready in two more weeks. The last detail that Baba had to attend to was her “dowry.”
“Dowry?” Aimée asked. “I am to have a dowry along with all of the beautiful things you have already given me?”
“Of course, my sweet. One may not present oneself to the richest man in the empire without making him a little richer. It is expected. Have I not told you the story of the famous Turkish pirate Barbarosa?”
“No, I would have remembered a tale of a pirate, I am sure.”
They sat in her private garden sipping cups of sweet Turkish coffee.
“Well, uhh, Barbarosa was not really a pirate. He was Lord High Admiral of the Turkish Navy and, as such, was required to pay annual tribute to the Sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent. Each year he tried to impress the Sultan by increasing the tribute of the previous year, until one year towards the end of his life, and this is what a gentlemen in attendance recorded, he presented the Sultan with “two-hundred boys dressed in scarlet, bearing in their hands flasks and goblets of gold and silver. Behind them followed thirty others, each carrying on his shoulders a purse of gold, after these came two hundred men, each carrying a purse of money, and lastly, two hundred infidels wearing collars, each bearing a roll of cloth on his back.”
Aimée listened wide-eyed, finding it hard to imagine the ostentatious procession of wealth.
“Impressive, yes?” Baba asked.
“Yes, but my dowry will not resemble that, will it?”
“Oh, no, my dear. But it shall be noteworthy nonetheless. I have stores of gold from which to draw, and we must also choose some little treasures for you as well. I would not allow you to arrive amongst those wealthy harem women like a poor relation. You must be appropriately endowed or you will not be given proper respect. We would not want you to begin your new life with less than befits your station.” He clapped his hands and a line of servants appeared. “So, I have arranged for some trinkets to be brought to us so that you may choose.”
Each servant carried a large strongbox. As the first in line approached, he flipped open the lid to reveal its content—a shining mound of precious gems and jewelry. Aimée gasped, her eyes becoming huge and her smile spreading widely.
“Oh, Baba!” she exclaimed. “I have never seen such treasure. May I?” she leaned forward as if to touch it.
Baba laughed. “They are yours to choose, my sweet. Go ahead.” He motioned her forward with his hand and the servant knelt, placing the chest before her. She turned to look at Baba, who nodded his head. “Choose, choose.”
Gingerly she dipped her right hand into the chest and pulled out a strand of large black pearls with a cabochon-ruby drop the size of her thumb. She let the strand coil into her palm and grinned at Baba.
“A good choice,” he said motioning her to dig back into the box.
Placing the pearl and ruby necklace in Baba’s lap, she reached in again and brought out a long, delicate gold chain interspersed with small, round diamonds. She immediately wound this around her tiny wrist five times then exclaimed with delight, “Oh Baba, look how they sparkle.” She held out her wrist for Baba’s inspection.
“Take some loose stones also, my dear. I am told that the Sultan’s jewelers are wildly inventive.”
With an impish grin on her face, she dug deeply into the bottom of the chest, and extracted a handful of loose stones. Carefully opening her palm, she gazed at them in wonder as they caught and reflected the light of the sun. They were a rainbow of colors: clear, brilliant diamonds, red and pink rubies, several shades of green emeralds, smoky gray topaz and sky blue aquamarines, in a variety of shapes and sizes from small pebbles to quail eggs. Baba made space in his lap for Aimée to deposit the stones. He signaled the servant to leave, and the next to come forward.
The second chest contained sparkling blue stones that reminded Aimée of the ocean on Martinique at night. She scooped up a handful and turned to Baba.
“Sapphires,” he exclaimed. “I like them especially because of the way they complement your beautiful blue eyes. Take another big handful of those.” He laughed as she followed his instructions.
The choosing of jewels continued for almost an hour and when complete, Aimée’s choices filled two large chests. Baba taught her the names of each precious stone, most of which she had never seen before. He smiled sadly, like a proud father about to send his only daughter into marriage. The bittersweet emotions of letting her go were mixed with hope for her future success. To Baba, Aimée was a rare acquisition as well as a wise long-term investment.
Overwhelmed by his generosity and kindness, part of Aimée wished that she could stay with Baba for the rest of her life. Another part eagerly anticipated her destiny. She ran her hands through the mounds of priceless jewels, which she now owned, never imagining that they were pirate’s booty, stolen from plundered ships—just as she had been.
Chapter 21
Istanbul
February 1782
For Aimée, the fifteen-week voyage seemed to take forever. Fortunately, she was able to continue her studies en route as Mira, the young tutor, had been allowed to accompany her. She would sail back with Baba when he returned. Aimée’s ability to converse in Turkish improved daily, although she understood more than she was able to speak.
To make the most of her final days with Baba, she asked endless questions about Turkish customs, learning about the Quran’s strict dictation of Moslem life. According to Baba, Moslems actually lived their lives by the Quran, unlike most Christians who, it seemed to her, rarely heeded the dictates of their Bible.
On the day before they were to reach their destination, Baba explained the procedure of their disembarkation to Aimée.
“When we arrive at the port, I will send word to the Sultan that a precious gift awaits... a gift requiring the personal escort of the Kizlar Agasi. He will then be dispatched to convey you to the palace.”
Aimée nodded.
“On the following day, I will request an audience with the Sultan to present his gifts and your dowry, along with a glowing report of your extraordinary beauty and character.”
“I am not to be presented along with the other gifts?”
“No, my dear, because you are not a slave.”
“Oh. I had not thought of it in that way. When will I be presented?”
“I do not know the particulars of that. There are proscribed rules for anyone entering the Sultan’s presence, and the Kizlar Agasi will prepare you in whatever way is necessary.”
~ ~ ~
The next morning, their little ship docked in the port of Istanbul and rocked gently on its moorings as Baba’s messenger made his way to the Sultan’s palace. Aimée and Baba sat in the salon, sipping rose petal tea as they nervously awaited the arrival of the Sultan’s retinue.
“Are you quite sure that we will not be able to visit one another?” she asked with a quaver in her voice. “What if you were my father? Would you be able to see me then?”
“I wish it could be so, my sweet. Truly, I would enjoy watching you blossom.” Hoping to lift her spirits, he added, “however, I will be able to get news of you through my friend, the Kizlar Agasi, and to send you greetings through him. But, we will never be in each other’s presence like this again.” He took hold of her small hands and his expression suddenly brightened into a mischievous smile. “Although... there might be one way.”
“What is that?” she asked excitedly.
“Well, when one meets with the Grand Vizier or his council in the Divan, I am told that the Sultan often observes and listens from a hidden position behind a pierced wall, a wall that makes it possible for him to see and hear without being seen. They call this the ‘eye of the Sultan.’ Were you to become his favorite, which I pray you will, he might allow you to join him in his hidden observations. I could send word of my visits to you through the Kizlar Agasi.”
Aimée’s face lit up with excitement. “I pro
mise that I shall try my very best to bring this about.” She cleared her throat. “Now then, have you any final words for me?” She smiled bravely to lighten the heaviness of their parting.
“Remember to do all that is in your power to befriend the Kizlar Agasi. Make him your strongest ally, because he is responsible for bringing you before the Sultan. You must know that your beauty will be a terrible threat to many of the women in the harem. Like my wives, they will be jealous. The more highly regarded you become in the eyes of the Sultan, the more protected and privileged you will be—the safer from harm. You must do everything in your power to ingratiate yourself to the Sultan, my pet. Everything.”
They both looked up as the sound of many feet echoed above them. Aimée’s heart beat faster, remembering a similar scene from her recent past.
Baba gently kissed the back of her hand and looked deeply into her eyes once more. “Adieu, ma petite chérie, bon chance.”
She jumped up, flinging her arms around his neck, and kissing him on both cheeks, wetting his face with her tears. “I shall never forget your kindness to me,” she said hugging him. “Never.”
Aimée wiped away her tears and pulled the dark-blue silk ferace over her head, fastening the heavily beaded veil across her face. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that it almost drowned out the sounds of the Sultan’s retinue above her. She stood still, taking deep breaths to calm herself, afraid she might faint from excitement.
Baba rose and motioned her to wait as he went above. He was surprised to see fifty eunuchs mounted on horseback on the dock, twice the number he had expected. Twenty Janissary guards, armed with short swords and daggers, had boarded the ship with the Kizlar Agasi, who salaamed when Baba appeared.
“My old friend, I see that you have prospered and increased in stature since we last met,” Baba said.
“And this elegant new ship befits the Dey of Algiers and the greatest pirate in the Sultan’s empire,” the Kizlar Agasi replied.
“May your wealth and girth increase tenfold,” Baba added.
