Sofia
to the cold, dark harem in Edirne to rot away until Allah was merciful and granted you death. No children, no diversions, no fine clothes, no jewels, nothing. That is not a life for you. I knew it the moment I saw you. ‘If anyone can make a Sultan of my son,’ I said, ‘it’s this one here.’“Now, my dear. You see? In three days we will celebrate Id ad-Adha, a festival in honor of the pilgrims in the Holy City of Mecca. My son has agreed to share the sacrifice with me, a mundane duty for him, but for me—I mean to give you to him on this holy day. Tell me. What do you think? Do you think you can do it?”
“Yes,” Safiye replied with such confidence that she almost forgot to add, as she had been taught one must always add when speaking of things yet to happen, “if Allah wills it.”
She set her mouth in a firm line as she said the words. So might a young recruit do when he is given orders full of danger and responsibility. She knew if she succeeded there would be glory indeed. But if she failed, only death could save her from the ignominy. She thought of Aziza and Belqis, girls who never received the call to go and wait on the master Selim either, though they were fair and pleasant tempered. Once rejected by Murad, their lives now offered no glimmer of a future at all.
The two women continued to walk in the gardens arm in arm, talking and planning, until the shadows grew long and tangled among the swelling rose hips.
Just before they turned to re-enter and join the other harem inmates, Safiye spoke, “Lady, there is one thing I must request before I go to your son.”
“Yes, my dear. What is it? You know you may have anything I can give you, clothes, jewels...”
“You have the means, have you not, by which one can keep from getting a child?”
“Yes. Yes, there are some potions I know of. But—”
“Please, provide me with some before I go to your son.”
“What? What talk is this?” Nur Banu exclaimed, dropping her arm from about Safiye’s waist in her horror. “Are you as perverse as he is, that you do not care for children? What kind of woman are you, who cares so little for her own future that she will throw away any chance to get a son?”
“Lady, forgive me,” Safiye said. “I would heartily love to have a son—and give you a grandson. If Allah is merciful I may yet be granted this blessing. But the first thing to be done is to get Murad away from his water pipe. Who can say how long that may take? Surely I can trust neither Allah nor what poor charms He may have given me to assure victory in the month or two that may pass before I become pregnant. Then, if I become sick or bloated and ugly, I will be beyond any hope of diverting your son, and we may lose him for good. By your leave, lady, give me your remedies that I may use them until victory is assured.”
Nur Banu nodded, slowly at first, for she was a woman who was always loath to credit any mind other than her own with good ideas. But Safiye knew she could not help but see the wisdom in this plan. Safiye would get what she wanted.
***
As they parted within the haremlik, the older woman stood behind and watched the younger go, that tall, graceful frame that seemed to dance as she moved.
Yes, she congratulated herself. I have chosen well. Very well.
But a little gnawing voice came right afterwards. Perhaps too well?
XXXI
Safiye opened her eyes at midmorning. The harem had spent a late night and she would have enjoyed the luxury of sleeping past noon, but she remembered what day it was. That evening would mark the Great Feast, Id al-Adha.
“For me, it shall be a sort of birth as well,” she murmured to herself. She stirred and found herself covered with rose petals. She remembered how delightfully cool they had felt on her naked skin when they’d first been showered on her, but the warmth of her sleep had wilted them and now her every move bruised their narcotic fragrance into her skin.
Safiye lifted her hands to her eyes to rub the sleep away, but she found her lower arms swathed in white and yellow silk. Now she remembered that she must not use her hands for anything.
The previous evening flooded back to her in vivid detail. Physically helpless, her mind grew active, fed by the night’s dreams. Once again she saw how the lamps of perforated brass swung star-shaped blotches of golden light down on the entire harem. The assembly of women sat packed knee to knee on the divans and on rugs on the floor; the lamps raised a slick of sweat on every curve of skin.
Into their midst, Nur Banu brought a silk square full of old, dried leaves to which she gave the name henna. Safiye had heard this identical word before in Venice, usually hissed behind critical hands when some woman beginning to go gray suddenly appeared with her hair the lurid color of flame. Here among the Turks, she had seen women dip their fingers in a henna pot after their baths to stain the nails and tips the hue of overripe apricots.
Now Nur Banu worked these leaves into a fresh paste moistened with rose water. When it was done, the paste was an unpleasant dark greenish-gray and smelled like a horse stall as well.
Unpleasant though it was, the pot was placed at her knee and Safiye gave her right hand over to Esmikhan Sultan. With the thinnest of sticks, this girl began to paint the paste onto the hand in an intricate design. Excited chatter and the comments and encouragement of the rest of the room barely concealed the fact that over