Harem (3 page)

For two months the Kapi Aga had known, by turns, abject terror, tremulous anticipation and delirious pleasure. He was a man with vivid imagination and he knew what they would do to him if his secret was discovered. But he could not stop now, even if one of God's angels had descended to earth to give him a written promise, signed in gold by God Himself, that he would be caught. The sexual pleasure - and she was a beautiful woman, made doubly so by being forbidden - was only part of it. It was the confirmation of a manhood he thought he had lost. He told himself he could endure any death, as long as he died a man.

Each Thursday afternoon, an hour before dusk, she would come to the garden to read her Qur'an. His whole week was precariously constructed around that dreadful, exquisite moment when he would turn the key in that rusted lock and enter the garden. Each time he pushed open the door he could never be sure if he would find Meylissa and her kittenish smile or his own soldiers, their razor-edged
killiç
drawn. Even as Head of the Palace Guard and Keeper of the Girls, he could not pull off his own dogs if he were discovered.

The iron-framed door creaked open - Merciful God it sounded like a cannon shot in the silence of the Harem! - and he crept through, locking it behind him. He glanced up at the north tower. The only way they might be seen was from the room at the very top - it was from there he had first seen Meylissa himself - but he had just locked the door to those two rooms himself.

Then why did he feel as if every member of the Divan was watching him, while the
bostanji-bashi
sharpened the iron hooks that would tear him apart?

The garden was shaded by high walls, the paths flanked by columns of white Paros marble and overhung with cypress and willow. It was always twilight here, though above the trees he could see the late afternoon sun catch the tiles on the minaret of the Harem mosque, turning them rose pink.

He looked around for Meylissa, thought to find her hunched over her Qur'an as usual on a marble seat beneath the colonnades; but there was no sign. He felt a thrill of fear. He held his breath and listened; the only sound was a lone nightingale calling softly in the willow branches above his head.

Why wasn't she here?

'She cannot come today.'

The voice came from behind him. He jerked around, instinctively drawing his
killiç
from its leather scabbard.

The girl crossed her arms and laughed at him.

He did not recognize her, but then there were so many new ones. She was tall and slim with flaming red hair and green eyes. She wore a yellow cotton kaftan with a gold brocade jacket and a little green cap - a taplock - on her head. There was a single pearl tied at the cap's tassel.

She was so tiny a breath of wind might blow her away. Yet she had scared him badly and he could not stop shaking. 'Where is Meylissa?' he said.

'In the Harem of course, safe from the attentions of men.'

'What are you laughing at?'

'You are as white as your turban. It's all right, as you can see, I'm not one of the Sultan's
Yeniçeris
. What are you so frightened of? I'm just a sewing girl. Look, I'm unarmed. I don't even have my needle.'

'Who do you think you're talking to, girl? I'll have you put to the bastinado …' He grabbed her by the arm, put his sword point to her eyes to intimidate her. Hürrem smiled back and her fingers closed around his groin.

'Meylissa says they still work. I'm just an innocent little sewing girl, but I thought they weren't supposed to.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Meylissa is going to have your baby.'

She might as well have told him she had the pestilence. He took a step backward and his sword slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the marble. His eyes were as wide as a horse bolting from a fire. He tried to say something and couldn't. A thread of saliva spilled from his bottom lip.

'You are thinking it's not possible? That's what she thought, too. But I promise you, Kapi Aga, you have defied their efforts to unman you.'

'Who are you? What do you want?'

'I'm Meylissa's friend.' She looked at the
killiç
lying on the marble. 'Pick it up,' she said, for no other reason than to test her advantage.

He bent to do as he was told. 'What do you want?'

'I want to help you.'

'I remember you now. You're the Russian girl. We bought you from the Tatars.'

She watched him with amusement; each question, each calculation was written there on his face as plain as if it was an illuminated page from the Qur'an.

'Who else knows?' he said.

'It would be so easy to toss us both in the Bosphorus in the middle of the night and be done with the whole thing. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? That's why we have told one other. Someone whose name you will never know.'

'I know you. The
Kiaya
calls you her little minx.'

'I am my own minx. I belong to no one.'

He sheathed his sword. He had the look of a trapped animal about him, cowed but still dangerous. 'So you want to help me?'

'I want to help Meylissa, but it will help you too. Or perhaps you do not wish my help. You could marry her and raise a family together.'

'Do not mock me!' He took a step towards her, bold again. 'How do I know this is true?'

'You do not. You might never know for certain until it is too late. One night the Sultan will appear in your quarters with two sacks. One for my friend Meylissa when they throw her in the Bosphorus. The other sack will be to collect the pieces of his former Kapi Aga after the
bostanji
-basha has finished cutting him into small pieces.'

'You're just a
houri
. What can you do?'

'I can eliminate your problem for you.'

'Eliminate?'

'Completely.'

'There is a witch in here who knows how to do this?'

'In return you will do something for me.'

'How do I know you are telling me the truth?'

'How can you be sure I'm not?'

He wanted to throttle her, that was plain, but that would not do him any good. He puffed out his cheeks and then, to her astonishment, stamped his foot. 'All right,' he said, at last. 'What is it you want? A better position? Clothes? Money?'

'You value your life so cheap?'

The sun was low in the sky now, and the minaret had turned blood-red. He should be reaching the sublime moment there in the shadows not bargaining with this impudent little slave girl. 'What is it you are after?'

'I want you to get me into the Sultan's bed.'

'What? But I cannot do that. It's impossible!'

'Then you must make it possible. Or else it is very possible indeed that the Sultan will discover your perfidy and have you hung on a hook and leave you to turn black in the sun. You know the punishment.'

'The Sultan never sleeps with any woman but Gülbehar, you know that! What you are asking is not in my power!'

For the first time Hürrem stopped smiling. 'Enjoy your death. I believe the
bostanji-bashi
will give you plenty of time to savour it.'

She walked away. The shadows crept across the garden and the Kapi Aga watched them come, frozen with terror.

The Harem dated back to the time when the Osmanli Turks were no more than nomadic traders living on the wild plains of Anatolia and Azerbaijan. The idea of the Harem was borrowed from the Persians, as a convenience for warriors who were away from the tribe for long months at a time. When the Osmanlis gave up their nomadic lifestyle, creating a capital first at Bursa, then Stamboul, the Harem had become an institution in itself and a rigid hierarchy had evolved, with its own protocols and government.

The Harem was not governed by the Sultan, but by the Sultan's mother - the Sultan Valide. The Sultan was bound as much by the laws of the Harem as any of the girls. It was she who governed this reclusive community of eunuchs and virgins, with the help of a Kapi Aga, the Chief White Eunuch, who was both Captain of the Guard and intermediary between the Valide and the Sultan himself.

A girl first arriving at the Harem would be given a position in one of the many departments, with the Mistress of the Robes perhaps or the Chief Kitchen Maker. She might rise through the ranks to a position of some importance in the Harem administration through her own merits, but the only way she might attain real power was by becoming
gözde
- 'in the eye'; that is, if she caught the interest of the Sultan himself.

If he actually invited her to his bed she became
iqbal
, and was given apartments and an allowance of her own. She might have one night with the Lord of Life or a hundred. But it all counted for nothing anyway unless she bore him a son and became one of his wives or
kadins
. There were only ever four wives and no more; after that, the abortionist was called in. These four wives remained just a breath from real power, for only one of them would one day become the mother of the next Osmanli Sultan.

But Suleiman had broken with tradition. Even though he was now almost thirty years old he still had only one
kadin
, Gülbehar, and just one son. It was a tenuous thread for an exalted bloodline such as the Osmanlis, and Suleiman's mother fretted continually over this reticence on her son's part to ensure he had enough heirs.

Hafise Sultan, the Valide, was an imposing woman, feared more than loved. She received the Kapi Aga in her audience chamber, an immense vault of gleaming onyx and veined marble.

A yellow bolt of sunlight angled in from the glass cupola high above.

She regarded the Kapi Aga from a high backed ebony chair upholstered with rich purple brocade. She looked entirely regal, except for her face, which had the soft lines and gentle grey eyes of a grandmother. It was the sort of face one was tempted to confide in. This made her very dangerous.

'You wanted to see me, Kapi Aga?' she said.

The Chief White Eunuch licked his lips. He felt as transparent as gossamer. He had practiced his speech long into the night but now every word of it deserted him and he felt overcome with a black panic. 'Crown of Veiled Hands …' he mumbled, addressing her by her formal title.

'What's the matter? Are you unwell?'

'A slight chill.'

'A visit to the apothecary perhaps?'

'I shall do as your Highness suggests.' Great God, just get this over with!

'Something is troubling you?'

Troubling him! He had spent most of the morning spurting his terror at both ends. It was a wonder he had not turned himself inside out. 'I have word of unrest among some of the girls.'

The Valide frowned. 'What kind of unrest?'

'Well, some of them, they are …'

'The point, Kapi Aga.'

'They are jealous.'

'Harem girls are always jealous of something.'

'This is not a passing envy. The discontent is growing. I think we should pay attention to it.'

The Valide gazed at him steadily, and he had the uncomfortable sensation that she could see into him. 'Go on.'

'Except me.'

Well yes, except you, the Kapi Aga thought. But I was counting on that. 'But some of the girls feel it is not right nor just that the Lord of Life ignores the rest of them in this manner. Some are becoming almost … unmanageable.'

'Well that is your job, and that of the Kislar Aghasi. To manage them.'

'Of course, My Lady. But if only there was something I could tell them … to encourage them.'

The Valide tapped a jewelled index finger on her cheek. 'What might prove sufficient encouragement, do you think?'

'That perhaps the Lord of Life would have use for them one day very soon?'

'Who is to say what he will or will not do?' The old lady's smile vanished. He had touched a nerve. If anyone was unhappy about Suleiman's exclusive attachment to Gülbehar, it was his mother.

'They all cherish the opportunity to serve their master as best they can.'

'Of course they do!' She knew that, she had been a slave girl once, before Selim had thrown his handkerchief across her shoulder. 'Are any of them a match for Gülbehar?'

'They all think they are,' the Kapi Aga said with a tight smile. Normally he would have allowed himself many such small jokes in the course of an audience, but it was hard to relax this morning.

The Valide looked through the window and across the gleaming cupolas of the Harem. She tapped the fingers of her left hand against her thumb as if she was silently calculating figures in her head. 'I shall talk to the Lord of Life,' she said. 'Thank you for bringing this subject to my attention.'

The Kapi Aga wanted to scream: 'Wait, I haven't said it all yet!' but he knew when he had been dismissed. He bowed and backed towards the door.

'One other thing.'

'Yes, Highness?'

'Do you have any particular girl in mind?'

He tried to hide his relief. He had thought she might not ask him. 'There is one girl I think might turn our Lord's head from the Rose of Spring. She has the sort of quick mind and lively nature he may find more than pleasing.'

'Her name?'

'Hürrem, Highness. Her name is Hürrem.'

The Qur'an decreed: 'Virtue is at the feet of the mother.' Whenever Suleiman came to the Eski Saraya, it was required by custom and by religion that he visit his mother first. He had always enjoyed his mother's company so this was one burden of office that did not sit heavy with him.

Hafise Sultan sat on the terrace in a flowered brocade kaftan, the spring sunshine sparkling on the dusting of baroque pearl and garnets in her hair. She seemed to enjoy these useless baubles more than real gems. It was an endearing vanity.

'Mother.' Suleiman kissed her hand and raised it to her forehead. He sat on the divan beside her, holding her hand in both of his. One of her handmaids hurried to fetch sherbets and rosewater.

'You are well?'

'I feel the chill more than I once did. At my age you look forward to spring.'

'You are not so old.'

'I am a grandmother,' she said. 'At least - I have one grandson. I suppose that is the same thing.'

Suleiman threw back his head and laughed. 'So that's what's wrong. You are so transparent.'

'I am saddened at how lightly you treat an old woman's fears.' Hafise pulled her hand away and chose a fig from the bowl of fruit in front of her. 'And what of the conqueror of Rhodes? Where does the Divan urge you to strike next?'

'You will hear no war drums this year. All my generals are still licking their wounds. It will be some time before they are ready to stretch their claws again.'

'And what about you?'

He sighed. 'The thought of another campaign sickens me to my soul.'

'A Sultan who refuses to carry the banner of Muhammad into battle shall not remain a Sultan for long. The
Yeniçeris
will see to that.'

'You do not need remind me of my duty, to them or to God. But for this season at least I have had enough of war.'

Hafise chose another fig with care, sifting for the right words with equal delicacy. 'A Sultan's duty lies not only on the battlefield.'

So, here was the real business; her first words to him that morning should have warned him. They were to talk of Gülbehar again. 'The Osmanlis have an heir,' he said.

'And what if he sickens? A Sultan should have many sons.'

'So they can murder each other when I am dead?' Suleiman thought about his father, Selim - Selim the Grim, they had called him. He had deposed his own father with the support of the
Yeniçeris
, then poisoned him on his way to exile. He then murdered his two brothers and eight nephews so his sultanate could not be challenged. He had murdered Suleiman's own brothers so that he would not be burdened with the same grisly business. Did he doubt that he would have had the stomach for it? Suleiman himself had not had a moment's ease until Selim's wasted and pain-racked body had finally succumbed to a stomach canker.

'You have a duty.'

'I have many duties.'

'And you should not neglect a single one.'

She was right, of course. It was she, not Selim who had taught him that duty took precedence above all else. 'Gülbehar makes me happy.'

'We are not talking about happiness, we are talking about heirs to the line of Osman.'

Suleiman turned away, staring at the panorama of minarets and cupolas that punctuated the jumble of wooden houses above the Golden Horn. He remembered his father's words to him before he sent him to Manisa as governor, his first official post: 'If a Turk dismounts from the saddle to sit on a carpet, he becomes nothing - nothing.'

But then his father was a barbarian.

'At this moment the house of Osman has only two heartbeats,' Hafise said. 'It is not enough.'

'What would you have me do?'

'I do not ask you to give up your Gülbehar. It is only natural that you should have a favourite. But there are many girls in the Harem. Some of them must be pleasing to the eye.'

'So I must play the bull for the house of Osman?'

'Indelicately put, especially in front of an old woman, but yes, that is exactly what you should do. Perhaps it would be different if Gülbehar had given you more sons. But she has been your
kadin
now for nine years …'

'She pleases me.'

'And another woman cannot?'

Suleiman jumped to his feet. He saw Fatih, one of his mother's handmaids, glance at him shyly from under kohl-darkened eyelashes. He felt a surge of impatience, with her and with himself. What was wrong with him? Most men would not find it such an onerous duty. Perhaps it is my way to rebel against the burden, how I demonstrate to everyone - especially myself - that I am different from the beasts who came before me. These hungry women make me feel shabby and degraded.

Fatih saw she had made him angry and lowered her eyes.

'I will do as you ask,' he said and kissed his mother's hand. I'll bull them all, one at a time, if that is what you want, he thought. I'll fill the palace with cradles.

And then I'll go back to Gülbehar.

***

The
Kiaya
snatched the cushion slip from Meylissa's hands, flung it on the floor and stamped on it. 'What is this? Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?'

Meylissa shook her head miserably.

'Look at these stitches! I would not give this to a peasant in the field, never mind the Valide!'

'What is the matter with you? These last few weeks you have been quite impossible!' She slapped Meylissa hard on the ear. The girl's howls encouraged her and she did it again.

Hürrem was contemptuous of Meylissa's surrender, but it was an opportunity to confront the old bitch. She got up from her workbench and snatched up the silk cushion at the
Kiaya
's feet. 'It is not so bad. I can alter this easily.'

'Ah, the little minx! You cannot sit still when you see fur flying, can you my sweet?'

'Leave her alone, she is not feeling well.'

'Well, let's send her to the infirmary then. And if your stitching is so fine, you can do her work as well as your own!'

Hürrem flung the piece of material in her face. 'Do it yourself, you old hag!'

The
Kiaya
slapped her hard on the cheek. Hürrem took a step back, then her own hand took the
Kiaya
on the side of the head, almost knocking her off her feet. The sound of the slap was followed by utter silence. The
Kiaya
stared at her, stunned.

Then her face split into a slow, triumphant smile. 'For that you get the bastinado,' she whispered. 'The Kapi Aga will have them strip the flesh from the soles of your feet with whips. It is spring now. If you are lucky you might take your first steps again in the winter. I will teach you to strike me!'

Two guards appeared in the doorway. One stepped into the room and took Hürrem's arm. 'You are to come with me,' he said in his high-pitched tremolo. 'Bring your sewing with you.'

Well, that was quick, Hürrem thought. Even the
Kiaya
cannot have her revenge served as promptly as this. She picked up her needles, her little bag of emery powder, and the green square of silk she had been embroidering, hoped the old hag could not see how her hands shook.

'Where are you taking her?' the
Kiaya
said.

'The Kapi Aga has given us our orders,' he said and led Hürrem to the door.

'She must be put to the bastinado!' the
Kiaya
shrieked, but there was no conviction in her voice, only bewilderment.

Hürrem let the guards hurry her away down the corridor. If the Kapi Aga had sent for her, it could mean only one thing, and it was not the bastinado.