The Kadin - Bertrice Small [106]
The other kadins giggled behind their hands.
“Hadji Bey! Really!”
The agha chuckled from deep within his throat “Remember, my lady, levity.”
“Out of my sight, you old schemer,” laughed Cyra.
Hadji Bey rose to his feet and, smiling fondly at the ladies of the future sultan, bowed himself out of the room.
Several weeks later, Prince Selim returned home, to be happily greeted by his entire family; but the homecoming was marred by two tragedies. The first was brought by the prince himself, who, after affectionately greeting each of his women in turn, took his third kadin aside and spoke privately with her. A sharp cry from Zuleika caused the others to turn toward them.
For one brief moment the smooth, calm face of the Oriental woman contorted in agony, and Selim, his own face sad, put his arms about her and muffled the hard, dry sobs. It lasted but a minute, and then Zuleika drew away from the prince. She stood with her head bowed for a moment and then, looking up into his face, brushed the tears from his cheek. Calling to her sons Abdullah and Nureddin, she asked permission to return to her quarters, and left the salon.
Selim returned to the little family group. “Prince Omar is dead,” he said. “He was killed in that last foolish battle between my brother and myself. He died bravely. Suleiman and Mohammed tried to aid him, but my third son was mortally wounded by the time they reached him. There was naught they could do but slay the murderers.”
There was nothing the kadins could say, but words were unnecessary. They had been so fortunate these many years. They had lived as a normal family, and they had known happiness, warmth, unity, and love. Unlike most women of their time, none had lost a child before this.
The second sadness to mar their day was the messenger who brought word of Prince Korkut’s death. This second older half-brother of Selim had, upon receiving word of the younger man’s victory over Ahmed, taken poison. In a scroll delivered to Selim, Korkut reiterated once again that he had no wish to be sultan, but he knew that if he remained living, dissident groups would form to press a cause he could not espouse, bringing further civil war to the empire. Death, concluded Korkut, was the only answer. He closed by bestowing his blessing on his younger brother.
That night in Cyra’s bedchamber, Selim wept. He had loved and admired the scholarly Korkut, who had administered the Macedonian province so well for their father. Of all the sultan’s sons, Korkut had been the most like him, lacking only Bajazet’s desire to rule; but, more important to Selim, Korkut had been his childhood friend.
“They will blame me for his death,” said Selim. “No matter how it is announced, they will say I murdered him, too.”
“Too?”
“Ah, yes. Already the gossips in the streets whisper that I murdered Ahmed. In two short years they have forgotten the depraved monster he was.”
She shook her head vehemently.
“Yes, my flower, and there is more. They say I hold the sultan under guard. That my father really sent his Janissaries to make me a prisoner as I rode on Constantinople with my Tartars; but that, instead, the Janissaries welcomed me and betrayed the sultan.” He sighed. “Ah, well. Soon they will call me a usurper. The doctors have told me that my father will never regain his health, and the council would declare me sultan. I put on the sword of Ayub in a few days.”
“And about time!”
He looked surprised.
“My dear lord, Turkey needs a strong ruler. Without one, she will flounder and break apart. It is only providence that the kingdoms of Western Europe are too busy with their own internal troubles. Were this not so, they would descend on us like a pack of wolves. They think we are barbarians. Christian princes who for one political reason or another wish to add to their own prestige and treasuries undertake Crusades against the infidel. Look to Spain. Ferdinand and his late queen, Isabella, drove the Moors out with a vengeance. The Moors are a highly civilized people, but they are not Christians.