The Kadin - Bertrice Small [84]
The following morning, young Suleiman visited his mother’s quarters as she breakfasted. Sitting across from her and helping himself to some fruit he announced, “Mohammed and I are going to ride into Constantinople to look for father.”
“You are not” answered his mother calmly.
“But we must” cried the boy. “Father could be dead or injured! Who would care for him? Do you think that she-camel Besma would not use the earthquake as an excuse to murder my father?”
“Suleiman!” Cyra’s voice snapped a warning, “I trust your grandfather to see to your father’s safety. Besides, the sultan is at the Yeni Serai, and you know that the harem lives at the Eski Serai.” She spoke in English as she always did when she did not want the slaves to understand her. “Besides, my son, your father is probably on his way back to us by now.”
Proudly drawing himself up, the boy said “I am almost fifteen, madam, and a man. In my father’s absence I am head of this household Has he not always said so? It is my decision to take Mohammed my brother, and ride to Constantinople to look for our father.”
Two pairs of eyes, one green, the other gray-green, blazed across the table at one another.
“Do not play the Grand Turk with me, my lad” said Cyra. “You are now, and will always be, my son. Do you think your father or grandfather would forgive me if I allowed you this folly and you came to harm? You are an heir! Where is your wisdom? Would you leave this house of women and children unprotected?”
“The soldiers would protect you,” the boy replied sullenly.
“And who is to lead them should it be necessary? Am I to put on armor and ride into battle while you wander about the capital?”
The boy looked at his intensely feminine young mother, with her undressed red-gold hair loose about her shoulders, and burst out laughing.
“I fail to see what is so funny,” she said
He choked back his mirth. “Dearest bulbul, you are so pretty, yet in your anger I see in your eyes the ghost of your Scots ancestors. I can well imagine you armored and riding into battle.”
Reaching across the table, she grabbed a handful of his dark hair and yanked hard
“Ouch!” he protested struggling to escape her.
“Have you no respect for your mother?” she laughed
“I humbly beg your pardon, bulbul.”
She relinquished her hold and became serious again. “Perhaps it is time you were kept more fully informed Suleiman. You are near to a man, though it amazes me to see you so. After the quake yesterday, I sent a message to Constantinople. Hadji Bey’s pigeons are reliable under any circumstances. We should have an answer soon. Let us wait until then.”
He gave in gracefully, knowing in his heart that she was right and feeling a trifle foolish that he should have allowed his emotions to overcome his own common sense.
Toward late afternoon a weary bird fluttered through the open portico into Cyra’s salon. Picking the exhausted creature up, she felt its heartbeat beneath her hand. Brave soldier, she thought, removing the capsuled message from its leg. Giving the bird to a slave, she instructed that it be fed and watered before being returned to the cote.
She sat down and, opening the container, withdrew a slip of paper. The message in Hadji Bey’s familiar hand was written in the dialect of the agha’s native land. He had taught Selim’s kadins this ancient tongue when they had first come to Turkey. It was used in all their personal correspondence, thus confounding would-be spies.
The message was brief. Selim and the rest of the imperial family was safe. The palaces, public and government buildings were damaged, but not badly. The capital, however, was in ruins. Huge waves had poured over the city walls. Scores of people were dead or injured. The sultan and the court were moving to Adrianople. Selim would accompany them before returning home. Under no circumstances were they to leave the palace.
Reading the message