The Kadin - Bertrice Small [108]
Selim Khan put on the sword of Ayub on a windy spring morning. It was done hurriedly and with little pomp. He rode from the palace, his black garments of mourning for his brothers relieved only by the white egret feather in his turban. At the tomb of Ayub, the Mevlevi dervishes, a religious order who had been allied with the House of Osman from earliest times, awaited him
The Mevlevi had always been the ones to declare a sultan to the people, and now, hastily gathered, they were reluctant to name Selim sultan over the still-living Bajazet. Selim grew impatient with their chatterings, and, unconciously paraphrasing his bas-kadin’s words, he snapped at the head dervish, “While you fuss like an old woman, the northern tribes gnaw at our borders. Turkey needs a strong sultan. You yourself have seen my father’s condition. Must I kill him to satisfy your conscience? If the price of saving Turkey is the death of Bajazet, then, by Allah, kill him yourself! I will not harm one hair of his beard, but I will be sultan!”
The head of the Mevlevi stared at Selim for a moment, then, grasping the prince’s hand, led him to a raised platform and proclaimed to the assembled crowds that Allah had willed Selim Khan to be their sultan. He fastened the bejeweled silver-sheathed sword onto Selim and stood back to allow the people a good look at their new lord.
The crowds stared in silence at the tall, grim-faced man. Then a small cheer began toward the rear of the assembled crush and rippled forward like a wave until it reached a roar. Sultan Selim Khan flashed a brief smile at his people, then, leaving the dais, leaped on his horse and, surrounded by his personal guard, returned to his capital.
At the palace gates the Janissaries swarmed forward crying, “The gift! Make the gift!”
And the pages who rode with the sultan reached into their pouches and flung handfuls of precious jewels to the eager soldiers. It was a bold and generous gesture. The head of the Janissaries, Bali Agha, struck Selim on the shoulder—the traditional greeting to a new sultan—and demanded, “Can you lead us, son of Bajazet?”
The meaning was clear. The fierce Janissaries had been idle for several years now and were eager for battle.
“I can lead you,” replied Selim, “and I will soon fill those noisy kettles of yours with enough gold to give them a more pleasant sound!”
Those within the sound of his voice began to chuckle, while others quickly repeated the sultan’s words to the men in the rear. The courtyard erupted with laughter.
“Long life to our sultan, Selim Khan,” came the cry as the new monarch, pushing his horse forward, rode through the mass of men.
Selim did not go to war for over a year. His first task was to straighten out the administrative workings of his government, which had grown lax during Bajazet’s illness while Selim had been away, chasing his brother throughout the empire. Then, too, time was needed to greet the delegations that came to bring tribute and pay homage to the new sultan.
One of these delegations came from the city of Baghdad. It presented to Selim one hundred rolls of brocaded fabric, one hundred gilded baskets of tulip bulbs, one hundred perfectly matched pale-pink pearls—and the caliph’s fourteen-year-old sister.
Knowing in advance the gifts of the Baghdad delegation, Cyra had suggested to the sultan that he give the girl to their eldest son, Suleiman. “She can be nothing more to you than a concubine, my lord, but if you give her to Suleiman, she may possibly become the mother of a future sultan, and you will do great honor to Baghdad. We shall need their friendship when we march on the shah of Persia.”
So Selim watched with interest—and possibly a small feeling of regret—as the ambassador from Baghdad handed out of the bejeweled litter a slender girl of medium height. Her hair