Sofia
Constantinople is far more humid and full of fevers than this place in the mountains.”To be given such confidences turned Sofia’s disappointment at the smallness of the place into the same sort of abiding patience her mistress showed.
“We must simply be content and wait our time. The old man cannot live forever, Allah have mercy on him.”
Sofia put a fervent hope in these words of the older woman, though at first she had no idea who “the old man” might be.
“Let me tell you, my little cloud from a foreign land, who we are, and how it is we came to Kutahiya, for it will help you to know your new master and how we live, even if you do not yet understand every word I say.”
Sofia nodded her willingness to hear the tale, which promised to be of some length. Such attention flattered her. To be reminded of her “new master” was not irksome. She had not even seen a man since her arrival except for the great hulk and several others of his kind whom she now knew were eunuchs. Rather than prison keepers, she grew to understand that they were her guardians. When she should come to need such services, they would act as emissaries between herself and the outside world. At the moment, she learned only to trust the constant gaze of their eyes and to call them, not a name that referred to their less-than-whole status, but either khadim, “servant,” or ustadh, “teacher.”
And Sofia had ceased to mind references to her “master” altogether when she learned that Nur Banu was also a slave to the same master.
“I was taken from my poor parents at the age of four. I have never really known any other life than that of service to the whims of a great man. Of course, my position is somewhat augmented by fate, which had made me the mother of that man’s oldest son.”
“Are you married to the Sultan’s heir, then?” Sofia asked in awe.
Nur Banu sighed. “No, I must give up on that. It is not Allah’s will that Selim will marry me as his father married his favorite, Khurrem Sultan.”
“So then you are a slave—like me.”
“Yes. Though on the books I will never be anything other than a slave, there is a very good chance, if Allah is favorable, if He wills I live long enough, that I will find myself in the position of Valide Sultan.”
“Mother of the Sultan.” Sofia tasted the word again and found it as delicious as ever. “Few men can entertain such high ambitions.”
She learns quickly, this one. Sofia could read the thought in Nur Banu’s eyes and felt proud.
Certainly nothing but pride sounded in the older woman’s voice as she continued, “My master is Selim, the eldest of four children born to the great Sultan of all the Muslims, Suleiman—may he reign forever—and his only legal wife, the beloved Khurrem Sultan—may Allah have mercy on her soul. Their third son, Djahangir, was always a weak boy and crippled—may Allah spare you from such offspring—and he died many years ago. The only daughter, Mihrimah, Suleiman gave to his Grand Vizier, Rustem Pasha, who has died this last year. Though Mihrimah Sultan suffers his loss greatly, poor thing, he left her an incredibly wealthy woman. I hope she may be well enough to make your acquaintance when next we are in Constantinople.”
“Mihrimah keeps her father the Sultan’s private household, doesn’t she?”
“That is true.”
“And as such she is a detriment to your power.”
“Who told you so?”
“The Quince.”
“The midwife, eh?”
“On my first day.”
Perhaps my lack of skill in Turkish made the statement too blunt, Sofia thought, reading the older woman’s face carefully. Perhaps it is better to keep such observations to myself.
Nur Banu did take some time to regain the composure in her flashing eyes before she continued, changing the subject. “Between my master Selim and his younger brother, Bayazid, there has always been fierce competition. My master is the elder, but their mother favored Bayazid. Indeed, it is said she never would have killed Mustafa for Selim, but only for Bayazid.”
“Killed—? Who was poor Mustafa?” Sofia asked.
“He was Suleiman’s first-born son, only by a concubine. Though his mother soon lost out to Khurrem in Suleiman’s affections, Mustafa was much more tenacious. Khurrem Sultan had to have him strangled.”
“Strangled?” Sofia repeated, unfamiliar with the word. Though many other words she did not know were allowed to pass by, she had to know what this one meant.
“Strangled,” Nur Banu said again. “With the oiled, silken bowstring. Silk is reserved for the members of the royal house. And the bowstring—it is a sin to shed royal blood. That is how it’s always done.”
“It is done?” Sofia asked.
“Strangled, so!” And Nur Banu suddenly stood up and gave a violent demonstration of the act upon the defenseless air, her fierce eyes flashing.
“The great lady Khurrem Sultan did this?” Sofia asked.
“Oh, no!” Nur Banu said. “Such is not a thing for ladies. Actually, I must give her credit. The old woman had such a way with Suleiman. She filled his ears with lies, and he was like potter’s clay in her hands.”
“The Sultan killed his own son?” Sofia asked.
“Not with his own hands, either, of course. He had three of his men’s ears punctured and their tongues cut out so they could tell no tales after they’d received the orders. It happened in the Sultan’s own tent when he had invited the unsuspecting Mustafa to dine. Suleiman himself sat but on the other side of the curtain in his harem and saw it all. Then he pretended not to know what had happened and he returned to Constantinople. There the news was brought to him, written on black paper in white ink, as the custom is. Only then did he join his people in a public show of grief. She was something, Khurrem Sultan was,” and Sofia nodded in joint wonder at the slave girl who had had her way over the son