The Kadin - Bertrice Small [115]
She had gazed deeply into his vacant, dark-blue eyes, but he was gone. The eyes had stared back at her, seeing nothing. The spark that had given Kasim life had flown. Sadly she had drawn the heavily lashed lids closed, and, ripping her garments, had slipped to the floor, weeping bitterly.
It was here Suleiman had found her. Lifting her up, he had brushed the tangled hair from her face, kissed the tears on her cheeks, and led her to her room
Crouched by the second bier in stony-faced silence, Zuleika mourned. Her second son, Abdullah, had perished this day at the age of sixteen. Zuleika’s thoughts were not, however, of her son. They were of revenge, and she now knew what form that vengeance would take. Persia had humiliated her, and she would humiliate Persia in a way it would not forget.
She rose and gazed down at the still, ivory features. He had died honorably, and perhaps it was better this way. The kadins had always hoped to end the cruel slaughter of the reigning sultan’s brothers, but who really knew what would happen when Suleiman became sultan? Power changes people, as Zuleika well knew.
Cyra, Firousi, and Sarina still clung to some of their Western ethics, but she, born in the East, knew the dangers of too many heirs, and the wisdom of their speedy demise. There would always be discontent between ruler and ruled, but the fewer roads to rebellion, the less chance of it
“He was brave, my brother, Abdullah.”
She turned to face Suleiman. “Cyra?”
“My mother sleeps, thanks to the juice of the poppy, and so should you, dear aunt Tomorrow we leave for Tabriz. You would not wish to be weary when my father passes judgment on the Persian heretics.” Their eyes locked for a moment
“We understand each other, o son of Selim. Praise Allah, you are more a Turk than a Westerner.”
“The Scots have never been noted for their mercy in blood feuds, Zuleika Kadin.”
“You are a Turk,” she replied firmly and, kissing him on the cheek, left him.
He stood, puzzled, for a minute and then, shrugging, walked out of the pavilion into the moonless night.
30
THE SHAH’S PALACE at Tabriz was brightly lit, and its throne room was filled to capacity with the entire Persian court. The Persians were frightened and the sultan knew it He also knew the first thing he would do after allowing Zuleika her revenge would be to ruthlessly stamp out the heretical Shiite sect adhered to by Ismail and his followers.
The Turkish soldiers had found hiding in the town a French Jesuit priest who claimed to be the representative of the French king, Louis XII. Selim let him go unharmed, but wondered if perhaps the European Christians were not secretly encouraging the split between the Muslims.
Seated on the Peacock Throne, the sultan was a resplendent and frightening figure. His black silk robe was embroidered with gold tulips, and he wore a cloth-of-gold turban set with a pigeon’s-blood ruby. At his feet reclined his kadins; Cyra in peach-and-gold silks and gauze, Zuleika in amethyst and silver. Nearby stood Suleiman, Mohammed and Murad.
Before the sultan stood the young shah. “I do not ask mercy for myself, my lord, but for my mother and the other ladies of my court.”
“I do not war with women, boy,” said Selim.
The shah flushed. Then you agree to grant them safe conduct?”
“Nor do I make treaties with boys. Especially those whose foolish fathers could not even distinguish between slave girl and princess.”
“You speak in riddles, Sultan Selim.”
The sultan smiled “Perhaps I do, but you will help me solve this riddle, boy.” He clapped his hands, and the guards escorted a small, richly dressed woman into the room. The Persian court bowed as she passed through them to the