by Zia Wesley
The slaves led her to a towel-covered divan where she slipped off the wooden clogs and reclined, one elbow propped against soft pillows. They brought her a tiny porcelain cup of dark, sweet coffee, plates of fruits, nuts, toffee and sweet little cakes. She ate some of everything, finding them all to be delicious, and from her cozy perch took in every aspect of the room. She saw marble banquettes lining three of the walls, and counted seventy-two silk pillows lying scattered on the carpeted floor. There were twenty-three low, brass tray tables, each holding a silver coffee service. Two intricately carved wooden doors with ornate silver handles stood in the far wall that she assumed led to the bathing pool. Aimée reclined, feeling sinfully excited by the prospects of bathing, and tried to imagine what would happen after her bath. Would she meet the Sultan tonight?
After about twenty minutes, the young slaves appeared to help her onto her pattens. Leading her to the large wooden doors, each grasped a handle and pulled it open. A wave of perfumed steam immediately engulfed Aimée as the slaves reached out to steady her.
The bathing area was easily twice the size of the one at Baba’s house and filled with dozens of young women and servants. The ones Aimée assumed to be the Sultan’s concubines, sat on marble stools while slave girls massaged and shampooed their hair, clipped their toenails and rubbed calloused feet with pumice stones. Girls poured perfumed water over each other from long, silver ladles and small golden bowls. Ten women lolled in a small pool of mineral water that bubbled up from a golden spigot in the floor, while dozens of others reclined on the broad steps leading into the larger pool. Some lay prone on raised marble slabs while slaves rubbed their bodies with a rough mixture of ground almonds and honey to remove dead skin and make it soft. Yet, even with all the activity there was a hushed languidness that let one know these women were in no hurry; they had all the time they needed to enjoy their bathing and beauty rituals.
As Aimée entered, all heads turned towards her and conversations came to a halt. Eyes widened and hands flew to cover open mouths. Whispered exclamations were exchanged and breath was held. All activity abruptly stopped. Although accustomed to the entrances of new novices, none of the women had ever before seen one with blonde hair.
Aimée, not understanding their shocked reaction and fearing a repeat of the encounter with Baba’s wives, began to back away. A young girl, who looked to be about twelve years old, bravely approached Aimée for a closer look. Her black eyes grew large with wonder as she slowly reached her hand up to touch Aimée’s waist-length golden hair. Aimée held her breath as the girl gently rubbed the silky strands between her fingers, then looked up and smiled.
“Soft, like silk,” the girl said in Turkish.
Aimée relaxed and smiled at the girl. Then ten other girls cautiously approached to feel Aimée’s hair for themselves. They smiled broadly as they ooohed and ahhed and called to the other women to come and touch. In moments, Aimée was surrounded by fifty naked females, odalisques and slaves, gently touching her hair and staring into her sapphire-blue eyes. Relieved that they were merely curious, she thought, They are all so young. It was quite a welcome, and she wished that she could understand more of what they were saying, but they all spoke at once in more languages than she could count.
The first brave young girl gently tugged at her hand and asked, in halting Turkish, what she was called.
“Aimée,” she replied.
The girl turned to the others and proudly said, “She is called Namay.”
She took Aimée’s hand and led her to an alabaster seat before a marble sink where hot and cold water ran from gold faucets. The girl filled a bowl with warm water and gently poured it over Aimée’s shoulders and back.
Giddy with relief, and enjoying the spirit of playful camaraderie between the naked nymphs, Aimée turned to smile at the young girl and asked, “Your name?”
“I am Perestu. It means ‘little swallow.’ What means Namay?”
Aimée thought for a moment then replied, “I do not know.”
“Oh, then,” Perestu replied sagely, “not real name.”
Aimée did not understand the girl’s comment—it did not make sense to her.
Several young women approached to politely introduce themselves, and Aimée relaxed even more. None of them seemed angry or discomforted by her presence and as she looked around she immediately understood their fascination with her hair and eyes. They were all black-haired, black-eyed beauties, probably Arab, Greek, Georgian and Circassian. They seemed to range in age from about twelve to twenty-five, with the greatest number appearing to be in their late teens. But Aimée had no way of knowing that these were just the new girls destined for the harem, like herself, and that she would not meet the true women of the seraglio or enter its portals for many months.
Entering the baths, Aimée later learned, meant that she was now enrolled in the Cariye Dairisi, the school for odalisques through which all novices must pass. The school’s lessons included the cultivation of grace, charm and sensuality as well as the artistic pursuits of embroidery, weaving, dancing, singing and playing of musical instruments. All newcomers were also taught to read, write and speak the common tongue of Ottoman Turkish. In this regard, Aimée was far ahead of most of them, including Perestu, who had only been in the school for a few weeks. No girl was ever required to renounce the religion of her birth; however, if one chose to adopt Islam, she simply said aloud, in front of two witnesses, “Allah is great and Mohammed is his prophet.”
But the most important aspect of the novice’s training was the perfection of the art of love, for pleasuring the Sultan was the true purpose of their existence. Mastering the art of devoting oneself solely to pleasure sometimes took more than a year, and younger odalisques like Perestu might spend two or more years in the school before graduating.
The graduation decision rested solely in the hands of the Circassian Kadine, traditionally the mother of the Sultan, because she knew his preferences, sexual and otherwise, better than anyone else. The current Kadine was in fact, mother of the heir rather than of the reigning Sultan, as he was seventy-one years old and his mother had long since passed. The tests required to graduate from the Cariye Dairisi took place over a two day period and included: the preparation and service of coffee (a precise art form), a musical recital, a dance program, dozens of costume changes and the actual performance of fourteen different sexual acts with a eunuch wearing a carved wooden penis and leather scrotum. Of course, Aimée knew nothing of this yet.
Nothing was left to chance, in fear of invoking the Sultan’s wrath. It was never prudent to displease an omnipotent demigod who wielded the power of life and death. Historically, disgruntled Sultans often dispatched unworthy concubines by drowning or strangulation, sometimes ridding themselves of hundreds at a time to make room for others who might be more pleasing. Within the world of the harem, one of the few luxuries not afforded was that of resting on one’s laurels. There were always newcomers to unseat odalisques who had become disgruntled, lazy or petulant.
Aimée hoped to be such a newcomer but, first she had to learn and master those arts not taught at the Couvent de la Visitation.
Chapter 23
On the following day, Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, dressed in his most splendid attire, passed through the white marble arches of the Imperial Gate. Above him, fifty armed Janissaries stood guard. He sat astride a bay Arabian stallion, flanked by an impressive retinue of his men, and twelve tribute slaves, stately Nubians dressed in their finest traditional African attire. Each slave wore thick wrist and ankle bracelets of heavy gold. Multiple strands of colorful beaded necklaces stacked up their necks, then fell like a beaded curtain almost to their waists. There were six men, six women, and Zahar, dressed in an opulent Turkish costume. So regal were their dress and bearing that pedestrians paused to watch them pass.
Inside the gate, hundreds of visitors and twice as many Janissary guards milled around in view of the “Blue Mosque,” the Hagia Sophia. Two dozen White E
unuchs guarded a long, low infirmary building to the left of the entrance. A bakery, flourmill, treasury, mint, furniture shop, workshop and repair shop all bustled with patrons—a small fraction of the twenty thousand palace workers who lived within its walls.
Baba rode towards the center of the huge courtyard. He was one of thousands who arrived daily to conduct political, personal or business dealings in the first courtyard of the Palace. Citizens came to register births, deaths and marriages, and to arrange and celebrate circumcisions. All petitions to the Sultan were brought here, as were foreign ministers and visiting dignitaries.
The elaborate protocol required for an audience with the Sultan began with a ritual bathing. Appropriate Turkish clothing was provided should the visitor not already be so attired. The visitor was then carried into the Divine One’s presence by Janissary guards supporting him under each arm. Baba was familiar with the procedure, having endured it dozens of times throughout his associations with four Sultans.
With the hopes of ensuring a positive outcome for his purpose, each visitor brought the most expensive gifts he could afford. On this day, the offerings included a dozen matching Arabian breeding stallions; stacks of precious, rare furs; two elephants; two golden boxes filled with large, black pearls; and an emerald cabochon the size of a duck’s egg.
Shortly before sunset, Baba entered the throne room carried by four strapping guards. One hundred armed Janissaries lined the silk- covered walls of the throne room like statues, never moving a muscle. The “throne” resembled a huge bed made of solid gold, encrusted with hundreds of large diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls and sapphires. Gold brocade curtains hung down on three sides from the canopy. The partially raised front curtain revealed the royal personage who reclined there on a mound of magnificent cushions.
Baba was pleased to find Sultan Abdul Hamid actually present. To most visitors, the Sultan remained hidden behind his curtains, rarely ever revealing more than a royal finger or hand. However, Baba Mohammed Ben Osman was a distant cousin, former Admiral of the Turkish navy, and captain of all Turkish pirates. His tribute added substantially to the royal coffers, and in times of war, his fleet aided the Turkish navy. Consequently, he was always received personally and with less formality than other visitors.
A cluster of diamonds the size of a man’s fist held an aigrette of peacock feathers at the front of the Sultan’s tall, white turban. His golden, jewel-encrusted robes, trimmed in ermine, matched the curtains perfectly. Baba was reassured to see the Sultan’s vanity still intact, his eyebrows dramatically arched and darkened with China ink, and his long square beard dyed black.
After exchanging several rounds of polite greetings, Baba revealed the purpose of his visit. As Aimée could not be brought before the Sultan in a public place, only her “dowry” would be presented.
“I bring you twelve Nubian slaves today my lord, a humble gift to accompany one of much greater value,” he said.
The elegant Nubians were each carried forward for the Sultan to see, and then removed.
The Sultan simply nodded. Everyone brought him valuable gifts.
“My real gift to you is a treasure so rare, so exquisite, so sublime that parting with it tears my heart to pieces.” He dramatically pounded his heart with his right fist, and then sighed deeply. “Yet, those gifts which we hold most dear are the most valuable to give, are they not?”
Again, the Sultan merely nodded and stifled a yawn. It must be difficult indeed, to part with treasure, he thought, although he had never experienced this himself.
“As always, your sacred imperial majesty, my gratitude is boundless,” Baba said, making a deep bow. “I pray that my gift will help to express this for me... that she will bring you boundless pleasures and enrich your life with her beauty, grace and adoration. She is of royal blood from the land of the Franks, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like sapphires.”
The Sultan raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. Hair the color of gold and sapphire eyes? His curiosity was piqued, and he shifted his position to signify that more attention was now being paid.
Ah, ha. He rises to the bait, Baba thought. What man can ever resist the exotic?
“I confess that were I, your humble servant, richer, younger or more virile, I might have felt worthy to keep her myself. But alas, I am an old man, and that would have been a grave injustice.”
This brought the barest hint of a smile to the Sultan’s face, for not only was Baba fifteen years his junior, he was also well aware of his cousin’s sexual proclivities. It was his duty to know the preferences, weaknesses and strengths of the men who wielded power in his empire, and his cousin enjoyed the particular charms of beautiful young men.
Baba continued, “I have personally entrusted her to the Kizlar Agasi who, I am assured, will present her to you as quickly as possible. It is also her wish to gift your majesty with her humble dowry. May I now present that to you?” he asked.
The Sultan nodded, and Baba clapped his hands loudly. With his signal, Janissary guards appeared carrying ten chests of gold and jewels. Each open chest was brought forward for the Sultan to view, which he did without moving a muscle. He possessed entire houses filled to their roofs with such treasure and, although he craved more, the acquisitions always left him unmoved.
When all of the chests had been displayed, the Sultan said, “Thank you, Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, you serve me well. I look forward to enjoying your gift.” Then he slowly raised the index finger of his left hand to signify that the audience was over, and two guards rushed forward to lower the front curtain completely.
Feeling pleased that the audience had gone well, Baba was carried out of the Royal presence and rejoined his men in the courtyard. They all looked forward to spending the next month in Istanbul before making the long journey home to Algiers. I shall miss my little golden-haired angel, he thought, and sighed deeply. Maybe I will buy a blonde boy to replace her.
~ ~ ~
The evening call to prayer found Baba in the mosque of the Hagia Sophia, surrounded by a thousand other Moslem men performing their final prayer ritual of the day. He prayed that Allah would grant him a life long enough to reap the benefits of his efforts. He wished to see his son royally appointed, and Aimée at the Sultan’s side.
Baba would have been pleased to know how well she was already doing. Aimée’s exotic beauty had caused a stir of curiosity and awe among the initiates, who had given her an exceptionally warm welcome. Her uniqueness drew the girls to her like flies to honey. They vied to dress her hair and show her how to apply kohl to her eyes to enhance their brilliance, arguing over who should get to sleep next to her. Despite the language barrier, which they all seemed to share, their attentions had given Aimée a sense of belonging.
Following her bath, Aimée submitted to a thorough physical examination by a palace physician, her teacher and the chief nurse. All were surprised by the intact maidenhead of this rather mature young woman. Fortunately, Aimée could not follow the discussion that ensued, regarding whether or not to break her hymen before the onset of her sexual training, or to leave it intact for the pleasure of the Sultan. They decided upon the latter plan, making their job harder, but (they hoped) ultimately more rewarding.
What name shall we give her? the Vekil Usta wondered, as she summoned the Kizlar Agasi to her quarters.
“Did you find our new student acceptable?” he asked.
“Surprisingly so,” she replied. “Still intact.”
“Ah, yes, that had been suggested. Apparently, she spent some years in a convent, which may explain her condition,” he said.
“Yes, no doubt. She is physically quite perfect and, of course, unique among the others here. Have you any preferences regarding a name?” she asked.
“Yes, actually. Her benefactor said something to me that has stayed in my mind. He said that should she be brought before the Sultan, her beauty would be embroidered upon his heart forever. Quite poetic.”
“Yes, it is,” she
said. “And a lovely old name... Nakshidil, I believe.”
“Yes, exactly,” he replied. “Nakshidil... embroidered on the heart.”
“Well then, that’s settled,” she said. “Her lessons begin tomorrow.”
Chapter 24
Although eager to proceed with her new life, Aimée felt relieved when she learned that she would not be entering the harem, or meeting the Sultan, any time in the near future. She had a lot to learn before she would be on equal footing with the women of the harem and was still glad to be cloistered from the realities of actual sex. She had gone from a Catholic convent to Baba’s home which she thought of as a more opulent, Moslem convent. Now she lived in a seraglio filled with devotees to sensual pleasure yet forbidden to participate in actual sex. This served Aimée well, as she was still opposed to the idea of sexual relations without the sanctity of church and marriage. How would she ever come to accept it?
After spending her whole life surrounded by French people, it felt strange to be the only French woman in the seraglio. As far as she knew, she might be the only French woman in all of Turkey. She was living in a foreign country without a guide, translator or map, with other foreign girls, mostly in the same situation. Their shared circumstance gave rise to kindness and a warm camaraderie between them.
Her first day in the school began with a meal of yogurt, fruit and sweet mint tea that would prove to be the lightest meal of the day. Following breakfast, the rest of the morning was spent learning the Ottoman Turkish language, a compilation of Turkish, Arabic and Persian. Aimée was pleased to discover that her lessons with Mira placed her well beyond the level of most of the other girls.
