The Kadin - Bertrice Small [30]
“Only you, Selim, are worthy to learn what I have to teach.”
“What is that grandfather?”
“I will teach you to be a warrior—the greatest warrior ever known. From now on, you will be taught the art of fighting by my own chosen men. Twice each week we will meet secretly, for I do not wish Besma to know of this, and you will show me what you have learned. I myself will teach you the tactics that won me so many battles—and the greatest prize of all, this jewel of a city. When I die, Turkey need not fear for her future, for you will help to protect it.”
Six years later, Selim attended Mohammed on his deathbed. The last words spoken by Mohammed had been spoken harshly, and only Selim had heard them.
“You—you must follow my successor!”
Selim remembered those words. They burned In his mind like hot coals and reaffirmed his secret desire to rule. The agha’s words today pleased him, though he showed no emotion other than agreement to his plans. It was a dangerous and painfully patient game he was being asked to play, but he would enjoy it The logic and skill of tactics had always intrigued him.
“You smile, my son,” said the agha.
“I am thinking of the image I must create.” He laughed. “Good Prince Selim! The perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect husband and father. Allah, Hadji Bey! You ask a great deal of a rough soldier. What happens if I do not like the maidens I choose from my father’s harem? A pretty face is not a guarantee of a man’s happiness.”
The agha smiled “When you choose, I promise you that at least three of the maidens will be to your taste. I go to seek them myself.”
“So you think you know my tastes?”
“Beauty, intelligence, warmth, independence, and perhaps a touch of mystery.”
“Find me one woman with all those traits, Hadji Bey, and I shall be a happy man.”
“I shall, my prince, and you shall.”
On Selim’s twenty-fifth birthday, and at the sultan’s order, the entire empire from the Balkans to the borders of Persia, celebrated. Selim had arrived in Constantinople just a week before, and at his father’s order been housed in an apartment in the Yeni Serai.
Most of his time was spent alone, for the Ottoman court, unlike its counterparts in Western Europe, had no nobility from among which its princes could draw friends. Coupled with his lonely upbringing, his position made him shy and wary. He was more at ease among his Tartars, for among them he had proved himself in the arts of war and therefore won their admiration and respect He could outride any man, throw a lance farther than any other, and no one was his equal with either knife or scimitar.
He saw his father three times. Bajazet had, as Kiusem hoped, been favorably impressed with Selim. At their first meeting, both had been hesitant Neither father nor son really knew the other. Then, in a supreme effort to make conversation, Selim mentioned that he wrote poetry. Immediately Bajazet grew enthusiastic. He, too, wrote poetry. In that moment the floodgates opened, and though neither could erase the twenty-five years of neglect a friendship was born between them.
Selim also saw his elder brother, who had been summoned to the celebration. Mellowed by forbidden wine but primed by his mother’s constant carping, Ahmed eyed his handsome brother suspiciously as Selim bowed deeply.
“Our father does you great honor.”
“It is not me he honors but my mother’s dying wish.”
“I am the heir.”
“Our father’s wish is mine also, brother.”
“My mother says you seek to steal my throne, but I told her she was wrong.” He raised his cup and drained it
Selim smiled. “I will not steal your throne, brother,” he said, but he was thinking, Fat fool! You have no throne and never will!
One day Selim was taken secretly by the agha to a hidden room overlooking the women’s