The Kadin - Bertrice Small [78]
Aware of the enormous disparity between her own odious offspring and the handsome son of her dead rival, Besma decided to pay her son and his household a visit
Entering the apartments, she noticed with distaste the dust balls beneath the furniture, the clothing carelessly strewn about rotting fruit in a bowl, and the distinct smell of urine. A slave asleep on the floor received a sharp kick from her foot. He leaped up.
“Where is your master?”
The slave pointed to the gardens. Besma, her step extremely firm now, followed his trembling finger into the warm sunshine. She stood for a moment in the shadow of a column, viewing the scene before her.
Her son lounged bare-chested on a divan by a pool in which several young girls and boys were swimming naked. The years had changed Ahmed greatly. Short of stature, he had always been heavier than one might desire, but the excesses in which he had indulged had turned his neat pudginess to sloppy fat He had developed breasts that flowed into great rolls of blubber that fell over his trouser top. Though liquor was forbidden by Muslim law, he secretly drank, and the secret was all too obvious in his beady, bloodshot eyes and the blue-veined, bulbous nose that had once been as straight and hawklike as Selim’s. His graying hair and beard were untidy and badly needed barbering.
Besma’s eyes now moved with sharp distaste to several others of Ahmed’s suite. They were posturing in a most disgusting and all too obvious tableau. One called to him to look, and when he did, he laughed in delighted fashion.
Besma stepped into her son’s view. She nodded curtly at him and turned to the group tableau. “Get out!” she commanded. “I wish to speak with my son!” They stared in astonishment at her. “Get out!” The prince’s retainers fled.
“You forget yourself, mother. I am master here.”
“You forget yourself, my son. Bajazet is the master here and everywhere else in the empire. You would do well never to forget it”
“What do you want?” he asked rudely.
“To speak with you about your conduct and from what I have just seen, I come not a moment too soon. Your apartment is filthy! I find your slaves asleep on the floor and your women and boys disporting themselves in a vulgar fashion. Word of this incident will be all over Constantinople by nightfall. While your reputation grows worse, Selim’s grows better. You openly break our laws, wallow in dirt, consort with boys, and mistreat your women. He is seen in the mosque regularly, his home is a place of joy, and his sons are legion. You would think he was the heir!”
“I am the heir, mother. I will rule after my father. Selim is merely a younger son.”
“Selim is the darling of the people, you fool! Each time he rides into the city, they cheer. Lately he has taken to corning with his three older sons—the heir, Suleiman, and the princes Mohammed and Omar. The people cheer louder. If you took the time to come out of your pigsty, you would see for yourself.”
“I am the heir,” repeated Ahmed.
“Bah!” snapped his mother. “You will never live to rule unless you change your ways, and should you chance to outlive Bajazet, will your brothers let you rule?”
Ahmed’s face crumbled. “What shall I do, mother?” he whined. “I am the heir.”
“Will you do exactly as I say?” she demanded of him.
He nodded.
“I will install a woman here from the Pavilion of Older Damsels to oversee your slaves. At least you will give the impression of cleanliness. Your drinking must stop! As for your depravities, try to keep them to a minimum. The agha has spies everywhere, and he is no friend of ours. When you are sultan, the first thing I shall do is have his head lopped off.”
“Is that all?”
“No! I am going to persuade Bajazet to bring Selim’s four oldest sons to the Eski Serai. Suleiman is nine now, and the youngest of the four, Prince Kasim, is six. As your heirs