The Kadin (17 page)

21

A
WAKENING
the following afternoon, Cyra forgot for a brief moment all of the previous day. The sun made dappled shadows of the leaves in her garden, the fountain tinkled cheerfully, and the air was mountain-cool and fresh.

Gazing down at her newly slim figure, she remembered, and, turning on her side to call Marian, she saw the cradle beside her bed. “Praise be to Allah and to Mohammed, His Prophet,” she exulted. “It is a boy!
My
son! My son, Suleiman!” She looked at the baby. He slept, his tiny hands curled into fists resting on either side of his head. His hair was black and wavy. Lifting the blanket that covered his little body, she noted that his limbs were rosy and sturdy, yet small-boned.

“You are awake.” The voice startled her.

“Selim! What do you think of Suleiman? Is he not beautiful? Is he not the most perfect child you’ve ever seen?”

The prince smiled tenderly. “Yes, my dove. He is beautiful, but that is because he takes after his mother.”

Her laughter was happy. “You great fool! He looks like an Ottoman, and bless Allah for it! He is you all over again.”

“I love you, Cyra! Not simply because you’ve given me a son, but because you are the bravest, most adorable of women.”

“I was not so brave yesterday. I was frightened, my lord, and yet today the sun shines, and all is well. I know now that my fear stemmed from the unknown. I shall never again allow myself to fear it!”

“I have brought you some gifts, my love.” He proffered a fiat leather box.

Taking it, she raised the lid and gasped. Nestled in the velvet was the most perfect emerald necklace and earrings she had ever seen. Each stone in the necklace was perfectly matched and the earrings, oblongs of gold filigree, were scattered with smaller emeralds. “They are beautiful,” she murmured

“They match your eyes. Bajazet gave them to my mother when I was born. I wanted you to have them. I brought you something else.” He handed her a thin gold chain, to which was attached a round medallion.

The medallion was half worked in a filigree of open, crisscross gold The other half was intricately carved gold in the shape of a quarter moon. She fingered it gently, and the tiny bells attached to the openwork tinkled

“I made it for you, Cyra.”

“You honor me, my lord The medallion will be all the more precious to me because it was your hand that created it”

“You are my bas-kadin. It is proper that I do you honor, but I must speak to you about my aunt Since you are now officially head of my women, you may want her to return to Constantinople.”

“Oh, no, Seliml Please let everything remain as it is. I love Lady Refet and I could not get on without her. Besides, if we sent her back, Besma would make her life miserable.”

“You have made me very happy, my beloved. It shall be as you wish.”

Suddenly the baby wailed. The young parents looked startled

“What is the matter with him?” cried Cyra.

“I think,” said Selim, laughing, “that Prince Suleiman is hungry.” Picking up the infant he handed him to Cyra, who placed the child at her breast. And smiling contentedly at each other, the young couple listened happily to the suckling of their son.

PART III
The Kadin
1501–1520

22

I
T WAS AUTUMN
. Snow had already appeared on the distant mountain peaks, yet by the sea the air was still warm. The vineyards and the orchards, bursting with ripe fruit, mingled their scents in a sweet potpourri of apples and grapes.

Lazy bees droned among the late flowers, and from the gardens of the Moonlight Serai came the sounds of children’s voices. There were six little boys, ranging in age from seven to two, who played a rough-and-tumble game across the grass.

“Suleiman,” called the beautiful red-haired young woman, “be careful of your little brothers! Remember, my lion, they are still very young.”

“Yes, mother,” the tall, slender, dark-haired boy called back.

Cyra turned to her companions. “He sometimes forgets that Abdullah and Murad are only two and three,” she said.

Zuleika laughed. “Abdullah can take care of himself,” she said. “He’s so fat I’m surprised they don’t use him for the ball.”

“Murad is fatter,” replied Cyra. “He can’t even see his legs, he’s so pudgy. We’ve never had that problem with the girls, have we, Firousi?”

“No. My girls are just perfect.” She glanced lovingly at her two-year-old daughters, little süver-blond miniatures of herself. They sat playing in the grass at her feet “I’m glad they are twins,” she said. “If I’d had only one girl, she might have been lonely, and I actually think Selim was pleased with them after six boys.”

“Of course he was pleased,” said Cyra, “and he delights in spoiling them.”

The three young women looked at each other and smiled. Eight years in captivity had changed them little. It was true their figures had matured with childbearing, but their own self-discipline had prevented the usual harem fat from setting in, and they were still slender. Their faces, if it was possible, were more beautiful, but happiness accounted for that They were truly happy.

Zuleika had been taught from childhood that she would share her man, and Firousi and Cyra had been snatched from their cultures early enough to change and accept the Turkish way of life. Seated in the gardens of their home, sewing and chatting, their children playing around them, they presented a charming picture of domesticity.

Few changes had come about in the years since they had first come to the Moonlight Serai. Two of their number had departed on the black camel of death—Iris in giving birth to a stillborn son, and Amara from a fever that struck her down during their second winter there. The little maiden from the warm Indian plains had never adjusted to the Turkish climate.

Perhaps the only flaw in their contentment was the fact that the terrible-tongued, softhearted Sarina had failed to join them in motherhood. Selim had taken her often enough to his couch, but she could not conceive. The children all adored her, and she loved and spoiled them in return. Still, she was only twenty-four, so perhaps there was some hope.

“Father! Father!” The shouts of the children rang on the cool air. Selim was coming across the lawn. The boys crowded about him, and he spoke to them each, giving a pat on the head to the younger ones, an affectionate whack to the older boys. Little Guzel and Hale hovered behind their brothers, and, seeing them, Selim scooped them up, one in each arm.

“And how are my littlest houris today?” he asked.

The twins giggled and, hiding their flowerlike faces behind their hands, peeked at him through their tiny fingers. Reaching his three kadins, he put the little girls down. “They grow more like their seductive mother every day.” Firousi blushed prettily.

The prince turned to his oldest son. “Suleiman, find your aunt Sarina and tell her I desire her presence. Then return to your studies.” The boy bowed to his father and hurried off, feeling self-important “Marian!” Cyra’s slave appeared magically. “Take the children inside and tell their tutors they are to stay there.”

The woman quickly complied. Selim was a good master, but he had been known to react harshly when not obeyed promptly.

Sarina joined the women, and, turning to them, Selim spoke.

“Word has just reached me that Besma has finally attained her first goal. My half-brother Ahmed has been returned to Constantinople, and the sultan has promised not to send him away again. He has been given a portion of the palace for his own court and twelve of father’s loveliest gediklis.”

“Twelve!” exclaimed Cyra.

“A small slap at me, my dove. As a younger son, I was honored by receiving six maidens, but as heir, Ahmed has received twice the number.”

“Allah help them,” murmured Zuleika.

“Yes, my flower of the Orient. They will need Allah’s help, but we have a more serious problem. Prince Ahmed will be arriving tomorrow night for a short visit while the workmen finish the renovation of his part of the Eski Serai.”

“What mischief is this?” demanded Cyra.

“Besma’s, I’ll wager. I believe she hopes to arouse my brother’s jealousy against me by showing him our way of life and my six fine sons—all of whom by law will supersede any sons Ahmed may sire.”

“What shall we do, my lord?”

“We shall do nothing, Cyra. We shall behave as we always do. Ahmed has been envious of me since I was a child. Once he took from me a toy my father had given me, even though he was well past the age for such things. He will be jealous of my women and my sons without their doing or saying a thing. Simply stay as much out of his way as possible. When you must be in his company, be cordial, no more.”

They nodded in agreement with him

“Will he be given the freedom of the palace, my lord?”

“Except the harem, Cyra.”

“Suleiman and Mohammed have their own quarters now, my lord. Might he not seek to harm them? His ways with small boys are well known.”

“It will be all right, my love. I have already instructed Arslan to guard your son and Firousi’s. The household guard will be extra vigilant during my brother’s stay.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You will have a great deal to do between now and tomorrow, my ladies. See that the household is prepared, and wear your loveliest costumes.”

Bowing, they left him musing in the late-afternoon sun.

“The pot begins to boil,” Selim muttered to himself. “With Allah’s help I’ll prove the better cook. Enjoy my hospitality while you can, my brother. We shall meet on the battlefield yet”

The following day the heir-apparent arrived at Selim’s palace. Outwardly the relationship between the two princes was cordial. Though Besma had poured a constant stream of poison about Selim into her son’s ear, Ahmed was not stupid. Selim had never exhibited any ambition or open hostility toward his older brother, and when Ahmed was away from his mother, he found he liked his younger brother. Selim, for his part, went out of his way to make Ahmed comfortable and secure.

On Ahmed’s first evening, the domed and colonnaded dining hall of the Moonlight Serai was brightly lit Brass braziers, their charcoal heat glowing bright red, took the chill off the late September night In a corner a group of musicians accompanied a lithe dancing girl who weaved and undulated across the marble floor. Seated on soft cushions at a low table, Prince Selim entertained his older half-brother. With them was Lady Refet for her years and her position afforded her this honor and respect.

The dancing girl finished her efforts, bowed, and ran from the room. Well-trained slaves removed the last dishes from the table and brought water pipes to the two men.

“Your hospitality is excellent my dear Selim, but then so, I understand, is the beauty of your harem. Why is it I have not yet seen your women?”

“The sweets, my brother, should always be served at the end of the meat”

Prince Ahmed laughed. “Well said, Selim! I am prettily reproved. My mother has always said my manners were gross.”

Selim nodded to a eunuch and then turned to his brother. “Join me on the dais, Ahmed, and I shall present my women to you.”

They moved from the table to a raised, pillow-strewn marble dais. Lady Refet sat on a leather stool nearby. Two slaves swung wide the large doors to the reception hall, and a veiled figure in a gold-bordered, light-green wool caftan glided into the hall. She moved to the foot of the dais, where a slave removed her robe. Her trousers were striped in wide bands of gold and green, a bodice made from cloth of gold covered her sheer white blouse, and her feet were encased in green silk slippers. Red-gold hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. It had been brushed to a sheen that caught the light and glowed. Around her throat glittered an emerald necklace, and emerald earrings bobbed from her ears. Falling to her knees before Selim, she pressed the hem of his robe to her forehead first, then to her lips.

“Rise,” he said. “Ahmed, my bas-kadin, the lady Cyra. You may remove your veil before my dear brother, love.”

Her slim ringed hand gently pulled the sheer green cloth from her face. “Welcome to the Moonlight Serai, Prince Ahmed. May your stay with us be a happy one.”

Ahmed stared for a long moment into the cool, unwavering green eyes, then his glance took in the rest of her face and her slender body. “Brother Selim, I would give my inheritance for one night at her couch.”

Selim laughed pleasantly. “My thanks, dear brother,” he said, “but I prefer the life of a country gentleman. Your empire is safe. Come, sit next to me, Cyra.”

A second figure appeared in the main doorway. She, too, wore a gold-bordered wool caftan, but in Persian blue. When the slave removed the caftan, Selim saw that her costume was identical to Cyra’s except for the colors—blue and gold. Her silvery-blond hair had been dressed high on her head to give her the illusion of height. Around her throat she wore a necklace of sapphires. Kneeling in front of the dais, she made her obeisance, removed her veil, and flashed a dazzling smile at Prince Ahmed.

“My second kadin, the lady Firousi.”

“Magnificent,” murmured the visiting prince.

Firousi moved to the dais and settled herself by Cyra as Zuleika arrived. Standing in front of her lord, Zuleika allowed the slave to remove her gold-bordered, scarlet wool caftan, revealing gold-and-scarlet trousers, a cloth-of-gold bodice over a sheer white blouse, and scarlet silk slippers. A magnificent necklace of blazing rubies flashed fire from her throat Her shining, blue-black hair was drawn back high on her head, to fall in one long, thick braid down her back.

Selim glanced at Cyra’s costume, Firousi’s, and Zuleika’s. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth. “My third kadin, the lady Zuleika.” Zuleika removed her veil, nodded coolly at Ahmed and took her place next to Firousi.

“The first three are exquisite, my brother. If your other three kadins are as lovely, I shall be quite jealous.”

“I have only three kadins, and one ikbal, Ahmed My other two maidens are dead”

A fourth figure in a gold-bordered white wool caftan walked into the hall and to the dais.

“Ah, Sarina, come forward my prickly rose”

Selim was not surprised to find that beneath her robe Sarina’s costume matched those of her companions, her colors being white and gold She wore only plain gold jewelry, for the lovely necklaces worn by her three companions had been gifts from Selim in token of the births of his first three sons. Sarina fell to her knees, her chestnut curls tumbling in delightful confusion about her face and shoulders. She then rose and removed her veil.

“My ikbal, the lady Sarina.”

“Is it not unusual to address an ikbal by the title
lady,
my brother?” asked Ahmed.

“In this house it is not” returned Selim, a bit sharply. “Though Allah has not
yet
blessed Sarina with children, she is indispensible to my well-being and happiness.” Sarina shot her lord a loving and grateful look, and then took her place on the dais. “When you visit my gardens tomorrow, think of Sarina,” continued Selim. “She has been responsible for them since we came here, and my gardens are famous throughout the province.”

“I don’t suppose your hospitality extends to the point of sending one of these jewels to warm my couch during my visit brother?”

Lady Refet looked shocked. Selim’s women were startled, and Cyra saw the almost imperceptible but angry tightening of her lord’s face that hid behind the pleasant, amused expression he turned to Ahmed. “You joke, of course, Ahmed,” he said. “Our future sultan, above all people, knows that under our religious laws what he playfully suggests is impossible. However, I have not been unmindful of your every comfort Hadji Bey has sent to us three of your maidens. You will find them waiting when you return to your suite.”

“Your thoughtfulness leaves me speechless, Selim.”

Selim grinned wickedly. “Before we retire for the night I would have you meet your nephews and nieces.” He nodded to his head eunuch, who, disappearing out a side door, returned a minute later with the eight children.

Walking to the foot of the dais, they bowed low to their father and their mothers. The boys were dressed in long yellow royal robes, and the girls in tiny green caftans. They stood in a line, according to age, in front of Selim.

“My bas-kadin’s oldest son, Suleiman. He is seven.”

“Ah, yes,” said Ahmed, “my heir. Did you know you will be sultan one day, nephew?”

“If Allah wills it my lord uncle. May you live a thousand years!”

Ahmed stared curiously at the boy. Suleiman stared back, his gaze unwavering.

“My second son, Firousi’s Mohammed. He is six and a half.” The boy bowed. “Zuleika’s son, Omar. He is five. And this little monkey is Cyra’s Kasim. He is four. Here is Zuleika’s second son, Abdullah, who is three. Finally, my youngest son, Cyra’s Murad, age two.”

“Most impressive, my brother. They are fine-looking boys, and it is comforting to me to know that the line of Osman will not die.” Ahmed turned to the twins. “And who are these beauties?”

“Firousi’s daughters, Hale and Guzel.”

“Hale, ‘light around the moon,’ and Guzel, the beautiful one.’ Charming,” murmured Ahmed. “Come, little ones. Sit on your uncle’s lap.”

Hale stamped her small foot and shouted, “No!”

Fortunately, Ahmed was amused. He had been well-fed and was feeling expansive. “I retire defeated, brother Selim. Your small daughter has grievously wounded my heart” He rose slowly, bowed to Lady Refet and his brother’s harem, and, followed by his personal slaves, left the hall.