The Kadin - Bertrice Small [37]
The agha nodded graciously as the remaining silk handkerchief was given to a lovely golden-blond from northern Greece with deep sapphire eyes and marble-white skin. Her name was Iris.
“You have chosen well, my son,” said Bajazet in a tone implying that perhaps Selim had chosen too well. The loss of the red-haired girl still rankled slightly. “Let the foreign and local representatives present their gifts to my son.”
Hadji Bey motioned to Selim’s new harem to sit by him on the dais. Fussily he arranged them so that when he finally stepped back and clapped his hands to signal, Cyra, Zuleika, and Firousi were seated closest to the prince.
Once again the slaves swung wide the great doors to the hall, admitting a large and colorful procession. First came the gifts from foreign nations. Egypt sent a dinner service for twelve—hammered gold plates with matching jewel-studded goblets. From the Mongol khan a marvelous coal-black stallion and two beautiful mares. One Indian ruler sent a gold belt two inches wide, studded with sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. Another prince of India sent two pygmy elephants. From Persia came several bolts of various-colored silks, the finest in the world. The Venetian Levant sent a flawless crystal vase, four feet in height filled with pale pink pearls, each one perfect and identical in size.
Next came gifts from every part of the vast Ottoman Empire. One by one they were laid before the dais—beautifully woven rugs, silken bags containing rare tulip bulbs, cages of exotic birds, half a dozen Pygmy eunuchs, a choir of castrated Christian boys prized for their singing voices, the newest telescope, carved from a piece of ivory and banded in silver. This last gift, from Magnesia, the prince’s former province, particularly pleased Selim, who was an avid student of astronomy.
As the pile of gifts grew higher and wider, Cyra watched the kadin Besma, mother of Prince Ahmed. Though she sat quietly, her face expressionless, her eyes flashed pure hatred at Selim and envy of the vast honor being paid this younger son of her lord and master.
Cyra debated with herself for a moment, and then, when the ceremony of the gifts was over and attention was diverted by the dancing girls, she reached up unobtrusively and touched the prince’s hand. Startled, he looked down.
“Forgive the liberty taken by this humble slave, my lord. May I speak?”
He nodded.
“Please notice the lady Besma. The surface of the pond is smooth, but beneath, the currents are deadly. Would it not be wise to oil those troubled waters?”
“My slave is as wise as she is lovely,” replied Selim. “It shall be done.”
When the entertainment was over and Bajazet started to signal an end to the evening, Selim rose and prostrated himself before his father.
“Yes, my son?”
“My lord father, I can never repay your kindness to me nor your great nobility in honoring your word to my mother, but I can try.” Reaching into a satin bag, he withdrew a sapphire the size of a hen’s egg, a gift from the caliph of Baghdad. “Please accept this trifle, my lord, although it cannot possibly repay you for your generosity to me.”
Pleased with the gesture, the sultan took the jewel.
“And,” continued the prince, “for the pearls of my father’s harem …” He reached into the Venetian vase and, removing two handfuls of the pink pearls, presented them to the third and fourth of his father’s wives. He then turned to face Besma. “And, for the rarest jewel in all the seraglio, an opal from the mines of Solomon, Its fire and beauty cannot begin to match yours, and its size”—which was that of a plum—“is surely smaller than your heart. For your son, my beloved brother Ahmed, my choirboys to sooth and entertain him.”
From behind her thin veil Besma looked as if she had swallowed a small hedgehog. “For myself, my son, and my husband’s kadins, I thank Prince Selim,” she said sourly.
“Well done, my son,” said the sultan. “Well done!” Raising his jeweled hand, he signaled the end of the evening and departed the Great Hall, followed by his