Two Empresses Read online

  The smiles and honeyed words and caresses Senieperver began to shower upon me almost daily radiated insincerity. I smiled back at her and received her attentions and gifts gracefully with the careful appearance of gratitude, but I knew she was as deadly as a fer-de-lance and only a fool would trust her. I always found some excuse not to partake of the food she brought me and the drinks I, so woefully clumsy, invariably spilled, often upon her gowns. Nor did I wear the garments she gave me; I had heard there were ways of infusing gloves and other garments with poisons. This woman was my enemy and I knew that she would always be there waiting for the one weak moment when I let down my guard and then she would strike at me.

  Lâle was worried and sought to warn me.

  “Teeth are not hearts,” I hastened to reassure him. “A smile does not always mean a good heart. I know better than to trust Senieperver.”

  CHAPTER 34

  As an ikbal, I no longer had to sleep in a dormitory; I was given my own room, a diamond-encrusted gold coffee service all my own, great carven chests and cabinets to hold my growing collection of jewels and finery, and a maid to serve only me.

  I chose a girl named Naime because her name reminded me of the one I had been born with—Aimee. Her parents had sent her to the harem, hoping to provide their daughter with a better future, but an unfortunate scar on her cheek that she always tried to hide with a forward drawn wave of her blue-black hair and veils had led Lâle to reject her. She was about to be sent to the auction block and sold again, on to another, less exacting, man’s harem or to be a household slave, when I asked to have her for my maid.

  Abdul Hamid sent for me almost every night. Each night was better than the last. Now when I walked the Golden Path my feet skimmed quick and light across the golden stone and Lâle panted to keep up with me. I waited impatiently all day to be with my royal lover, filling the hours in between with sleep and as much knowledge and diversion as I could cram into them. We had settled into an easy familiarity that was very comforting and dear. He would talk to me of his woes: the stagnant splendor of Turkey; the greedy Russians encroaching upon its borders; the voluptuous Tsarina Catherine as insatiable for Turkish territories as she was for young male bodies; and the corruption eroding his own elite guard, the Janissaries.

  Once they had been the proud guardians of the Sultan’s throne, the loyalest of the loyal; now the Janissaries were prone to making Sultans topple from their thrones. The Janissaries resented any opposition or attempts at discipline. They liked the old ways best and considered change their worst enemy; they accepted bribes and sold favors and roamed the city looting and plundering the bazaars and terrorizing the people. Though the Janissaries were supposed to lead austere lives and remain celibate, they would rape any woman they chose and strike off men’s heads at random, gouge out eyes, or nail anyone who offended them to walls by their ears. Sometimes the Janissaries would leave a victim to bleed to death blind and deaf with every limb severed and their tongue cut out. Whenever the Janissaries were displeased they would overturn the great kettles in which they received their weekly rations of rice from the palace kitchens and beat on them with the long-handled spoons they wore in their tall felt hats. There was no sound more likely to strike terror in a sultan’s heart than that of the Janissaries beating on their kettledrums.

  Abdul Hamid would heave a heavy sigh and draw me onto his knee and beg me please to help him forget, to amuse him and make him laugh.

  I would tell him what I had learned that day, such as to devour feta cheese with my fingertips with the utmost grace or to eat halvah without getting sesame seeds stuck in my teeth, and, in bed, I would show him what I had learned in the School of Love. I happily did anything and everything I could to chase his cares away.

  But whenever I was not with him, loneliness encroached on me, even though I was never truly alone.

  While I was impervious to Senieperver’s feigned benevolence, it saddened me far more that many of the other women who had shown me small kindnesses began to turn spiteful and cold. There were petty acts of meanness, such as leaving pins in my clothes, pulling or knotting my hair while braiding it, or stabbing me when “helping” me to put on a brooch, spitting in my coffee or sherbet when my back was turned, or concealing medicines that would have a laxative or soporific effect in my food to keep me from going to Abdul Hamid. One woman in the baths “accidentally” dipped the end of my braid in the caustic hair-eating paste so a good five inches had to be cut away. Women bearing bowls of indigo or henna also had the “misfortune” to trip over me so that the bath attendants had to labor long and hard before I was presentable and could go to Abdul Hamid again.

  When I showed the Sultan the blue and white glass beads fashioned like eyes that Lâle had given me to guard me against the evil eye, he went him one better and had the court jeweler make for me a long diamond necklace of more than one hundred eyes, each one set with an iris of a different gem, including emeralds, sapphires, topazes, and amethysts, with black spinel pupils. Of course this extravagant and loving gesture only made me more envied. But I didn’t care. It became my favorite necklace; along with the pearl cross my parents had given me and the snake charm from Euphemia David it formed a trio of treasured talismans, and I was never seen without it. I also began to have a henna tattoo of a serpent swallowing its own tail drawn regularly upon the small of my back, just like Euphemia David had been rumored to have. Those words—in my end is my beginning—a prophecy fulfilled, and the truth in them, meant so much to me, I wanted this symbol always upon me, inked into my very skin or symbolized in sparkling gold, gems, and diamonds.

  Each month when I bled and could not go to the Sultan’s bed as I was considered unclean, there was much jubilation and preening in the harem. All the women took extra care over their appearance, striving to appear the most beautiful and best dressed in the hope that they would be the one to supplant me. How disappointed they always were when Abdul Hamid chose to spend those nights alone and no one was called to walk the Golden Path. They were crestfallen to see the Chief White Eunuch, the Kapi Aga, who acted as the Sultan’s valet, hurrying to my door every morning and night that I was unwell to ask on behalf of his master how I fared, if I had slept well, if I was in pain, or if I desired or required anything. His kindness only made them hate me more, but I treasured it above all the jewels and gifts Abdul Hamid ever gave me.

  One day while I was at my lessons someone left several cucumbers, eggplants, and long yellow squashes concealed in my bed. I returned to find the Kahya Kadin and several black eunuchs staring down at this hoard of vegetables. When I asked what was amiss they all frowned and regarded me with the gravest expressions.

  “Those are not mine!” I cried, bewildered. I didn’t understand why anyone would do such a thing. And why all the grim faces? What was all the fuss about? Was I being accused of gluttony or stealing?

  The eunuchs were ready to beat me with the soles of their red slippers; fortunately, they could do nothing to me without Lâle’s sanction and he could see that I was genuinely bewildered. Such vegetables, he explained, were never allowed intact inside the harem, only sliced. Possessing them whole was a serious offense, as some women had been known to make use of them as a substitute for a man’s member. This was strictly forbidden. The women of the harem might kiss and “play at” sex as much as they pleased, such things were never taken seriously, but only the Sultan’s phallus was allowed to penetrate their bodies.

  Some women were even more devious; they would feign friendship just to get close to me, to try to discover the secret of my allure, and then turn against me, betraying confidences or opening me up to ridicule. As a result, I began to grow more guarded whenever anyone approached me with a smile and friendly overtures. Though I might respond in kind, I was always on guard, always reminding myself not to do or say anything I would not be comfortable having the whole harem see or know.

  Even with all the lessons that occupied my days, and the nights I spent with the Sultan, th
ere were still many empty hours to fill. Driven by curiosity and boredom, I sometimes engaged in Sapphic diversions like the other women. I was learning so much in the School of Love and I discovered that it was fun to play in the baths and practice my newly acquired skills. I felt so sophisticated, decadent, and daring, now that I understood what the nuns had feared and what all that hands above the bedclothes and bathing in robes and darkness nonsense was about. I was beautiful, golden, and different, and even though the other women might envy and resent me, or even hate me, many nonetheless desired me. But without genuine affection for each other, I found these amours left me feeling curiously hollow and empty inside. They fulfilled my body, but not my soul. I tried to take pleasure, and give it, solely for pleasure’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it; even though it felt very good, something was always missing at the heart of it.

  The closest to true friendship I ever came was with Besame, the woman who had given me my first taste of sherbet. She was twenty-eight years old; her parents, hoping to provide their only daughter with a better life, had sold her into the Sultan’s harem when she was fourteen. Abdul Hamid had bedded her twice, first when she was fifteen, then again at seventeen, but he had not noticed her since. That suited Besame just fine; she was content with her comfortable life and the company of women. She had a wonderfully bawdy sense of humor and delighted in making pastries with erotic names and shapes to amuse the harem. They were the most decadent pastries imaginable, always abundantly rich, sugary, and buttery, stuffed with so much honey or cream they overflowed at the first bite, “the better to tempt another’s tongue to licking and lips to kissing,” Besame would slyly say, and it was quite true.

  She would often come to my room bearing a plate of freshly baked Lady’s Lips, Nipples, Navels, or Fingers and sit on my bed with me. She would always take the first bite and then feed me the next with her own fingers. It was her silent way of showing me that Death was not hiding in the sweet things she brought me. Then I would choose the next, hold it to her lips first, and then to my own. And there was always much licking and kissing and giggling in between bites as the pastries spilled their sweet stuffing over our lips and chins before we moved on to more intimate diversions.

  I was lonely and would dearly have loved a confidante, a companion whom I could trust entirely. But that was not to be; something always held me back from giving my trust completely. Too many times friendship had proven feigned and false, and even sweet, bawdy Besame could not win over my wariness. One of the saddest days I have ever known was when I finally admitted to myself that I no longer believed in anyone’s sincerity; it seemed like a part of my heart died that day. But by then I had already learned that trust could be deadly.

  One day I found seven mendils, colored handkerchiefs, on my bed. Each one contained a different flavor of Turkish delight (rahat lokum). This was a custom amongst harem women, I had learned, for a secret admirer or would-be lover to give such gifts. Each color conveyed a meaning: There was red for passion, pink for true love, green for carnal intentions with no deeper connection, orange for heartache, black for despair, purple for suffering through love, and blue for hope. To give me all seven, someone must be either very confused or suffering desperately for want of me. As I sat down on my bed and unwrapped the sweets and began to eat them I wondered who it could be and if she would soon reveal herself to me. Maybe we would have fun together.

  After the second piece, I began to feel a terrible fire burning in my throat that not even water or sherbet would quench. When I stood up, the room began to sway and spin. I felt the heat rising, filling my throat. It was as though an invisible noose was being tugged tight about my neck, making it increasingly hard for me to breathe. I only just managed to call for help before I collapsed and lost consciousness.

  I awakened in Abdul Hamid’s bed with his Greek physician standing over me. I heard a girl sobbing. Lâle had found the guilty one and brought her to the Sultan for judgment. My secret admirer, a girl named Gulbahar, had murder, not love, on her mind. She was made to kneel before the Sultan, the closest she had ever been to him before. She wept and clung and kissed the hem of his robe and the jeweled slippers on his feet. Abdul Hamid stared down at her in pure disgust and motioned for the black eunuchs to take her from him. She was made to kneel before a small gilded table and the colorful handkerchiefs and Turkish delight were set before her.

  “She only had two,” Abdul Hamid said, pointing to me. “Pray that the remaining five are enough to kill you; poisoned sweets will be a far more pleasant way to die than the death that I will devise for you if I have to.”

  She perished in the utmost agony, writhing and screaming as though her insides were on fire, on the Sultan’s red and gold carpet while he stood motionless and merciless above her.

  Within a few days I had completely recovered, but I never forgot how close I had come to death that day; trust in what I thought was a sweet, romantic gesture had brought me to the brink. It was a very sobering thought.

  My introduction to opium almost took me back to that same frightening precipice. I couldn’t believe I made the same mistake twice, and in so brief a time.

  One lazy afternoon, Simandi, a woman I mistakenly believed to be a friend, presented me with some dark chocolate pastilles. They reminded me of the cocoa that grew at La Trinité. I lay on my bed thinking of my parents and the home I would never see again. Tears seeped from my eyes as I let each morsel of rich dark chocolate melt lingeringly upon my tongue. There was a strange bitterness at the heart of them. Simandi stroked my hair and kissed me and told me it was nothing, just the way they were prepared here, with special herbs and spices. I would soon grow accustomed to the taste, she promised, and even come to crave it as most of the women in the harem did. A strange lethargy began to steal over me as Simandi began to undress me, murmuring that she hadn’t meant to make me feel sad, but she knew a way to make me feel better. My eyes and limbs grew very heavy and my tongue felt like an acrid lead weight in my mouth. I felt the weight of Simandi’s dark hair on my thighs as she kissed her way down my body. I was too weary to respond to her lovemaking, yet I lacked the strength to ask her to stop. I couldn’t keep my eyes open or even lift one finger.

  When I opened my eyes again seven whole days had passed. Lâle and the Sultan’s physician were standing over me, and Abdul Hamid was there holding my hand tight, willing me back to life. Opium, distilled from the more potent white poppy, mixed with hashish, musk, and ambergris, had been at the dark heart of the chocolates Simandi had given me. Unaccustomed to opium and unaware of its presence within the sweets, I had eaten too many, and my heart had almost stopped. Its beats had grown so slow, sluggish, and faint that more than once the doctor had given me up for dead. A shroud had even been prepared for me. No one believed I would ever wake up; that I did was hailed as a miracle. “Allah be praised!” Abdul Hamid must have cried a thousand times as he covered me with tears and kisses.

  * * *

  Abdul Hamid, concerned by one too many “accidents” befalling me, sent Lâle to the slave market to find a woman of sufficient strength to safeguard me. He bought a giantess named Kuvveti, which means “Powerful.” She was a rugged Georgian mountain girl, nearly six feet tall, of a race rumored to be descended from the fabled Amazon women. She could break a man’s neck with a single blow, run like a gazelle, and easily sweep me up in her strong arms and carry me away at the least sign of danger. I was the only one amongst the five hundred harem women to have a bodyguard and this made me feel even more isolated.

  Kuvvetti took her duties very seriously. She was fiercely loyal to me. She never let me out of her sight except when I was with the Sultan. Even then she slept stretched out across the threshold, just like she did in my own bedchamber, so that no one could get to me without first stepping over her and in between the two fierce guards that stood flanking the Sultan’s door. But no one ever dared attempt that; my giantess could break ankles with her bare hands. Even when I welcomed another woman into my
bed, Kuvvetti remained watchful and alert, though I said that she might sleep or seek some pleasure for herself. But Kuvetti would not leave me. One never knew when a foe might unexpectedly emerge from hiding inside a friend like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  * * *

  My miraculous recovery was celebrated with a great open-air picnic on the banks of the Bosphorus. It was the first time I had been outside the harem walls since I arrived and also my first proper view of Topkapi Palace from the outside. Perched on a promontory between Europe and Asia, lapped by the waters of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus, it was truly vast and breathtaking to behold. Both magnificent and maleficent, it was at once a palace and a fortress; a city within itself, its stone walls encompassed palaces within palaces, mazes within mazes, whole miles of twisting and turning corridors and staircases, the harem, baths, servant and guest quarters, the apartments of important courtiers and members of the royal family, the grandest of all belonging to the Sultan, the Sultana Valide, the Kizlar Aga, and the heir to the throne. There were libraries, throne rooms, presence chambers, reception halls, the Council Chamber, special dormitories just for the palace’s dwarves, mutes, and fools and separate ones for the white and black eunuchs. There were great halls for entertainments, barracks for the royal guard, the reviled and dreaded Janissaries, mosques, prayer rooms, hospitals, apothecaries, the quarters of the harem midwife and court abortionist, several schools, uncountable kitchens, laundries, and storerooms, stables, guardhouses, granaries, menageries, aviaries, including a special one just for housing nightingales, pleasure gardens, hothouses, orchards, courtyards, pools, kiosks, pavilions, prisons, torture chambers, and treasure vaults. There was even a great ice pit where ice, carried down by mules from Mount Olympus, was stored wrapped in flannel for the making of sherbets and other cold delicacies, and the Hall of the Sacred Mantle where the relics of the Prophet, Mohammed, were housed and where sultans went to pray and be crowned. The palace was large enough to harbor thirty-five thousand souls; it reminded me of the world’s largest anthill. And within its walls and underneath its floors was a whole warren of secret passageways and chambers. One could spend their whole life in Topkapi Palace and never see all of it.