Harem Read Free Page A

turban he tossed aside that other self, the Sultan of the Osmanlis. He ran a hand across his smooth, shaved skull to the scalplock at the crown.
    Ever since he inherited the throne from his father three years before, he had the feeling of looking out at the world from a darkened room and watching himself, like an actor in a shadow play. He thought the feeling would pass as he grew accustomed to his new role, but instead it grew stronger. Even in his diaries he referred to himself in the third person.
    He sighed. They called the Grand Vizier the 'bearer of the burden.' But the Grand Vizier was only a juggler, a balancing act of flattery, mathematics and duplicity. It was the Sultan who truly carried the load; the great weight of expectation, not only of the six million Turks that he ruled, but of Islam itself.
    But here, in the silence of the Harem, there was respite; scented wood burned in the tall copper hearth; firelight rippled on the tiled walls; silver incense burners smouldered, chasing away the bloody ghosts of Rhodes. There were no viziers, generals, responsibilities.
    And there was Gülbehar.
    He heard the rustle of fabric as she entered through a rose damask curtain at the far end of the room. Her hair was tied in a single long braid down her back. She wore a chemise - a gömlek - of sheer sky-blue silk and two diamond buttons danced against her flesh. Her waistcoat was of blue Bursa brocade, her pantaloons a white waterfall of silk. She is like sunlight rippling on the water, he thought.
    Gülbehar, Rose of Spring. What a perfect name they gave you.
    She fell on her knees and touched her forehead to the carpet. 'Sala'am, Lord of my Life. Sultan of Sultans, Lord of the World. King of Kings.'
    He motioned to her, impatiently. How many times had he told her there was no need? But she always greeted him this same way, keeping to the ancient formula. But he did not wish to be reminded of his role in the world. He was a man come home; that was all he wanted.
    'Come here.'
    She ran the last few steps and buried her face in his neck. He felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek and the scent of dried jasmine from her hair.
    'When there was snow on the minarets and still you had not returned I thought you were never coming back. I was so frightened without you. There are so many whispers.' She pulled away from him and stared into his face. 'You were not hurt?'
    'No scars that will ever show. How is little Mustapha?'
    'He has missed you. He talks of you often.'
    'Let me see him.'
    Gülbehar took his hand and led him through the apartments to the prince's bedchamber. A candle burned in a long golden candlestick at one corner of the bed, attended by a turbaned page. Another stood waiting in the shadows. Whenever the boy turned in his sleep the candle on that side would be extinguished and another lit on the other side.
    Suleiman leaned over the mattress. Mustapha had fair hair like his mother, and the same serene features. He was nine years old now, growing tall, as skilled at throwing a javelin as he was at learning the Qur'an and reading mathematics. The next Osmanli Sultan, Suleiman thought. Enjoy your youth while you can. It is good you are growing broad shoulders.
    Such irony that his son looked so little like him, even less like one of the Turks he would one day rule. But every Sultan's wife was a slave and an infidel, since the Qur'an decreed that no Muslim could be sold into slavery. So every Sultan was the son of a slave yet divinely chosen as the Protector of the Great Faith. God's web was indeed a large one.
    'He is well?'
    'Sturdy and strong. He wishes to be like his father.'
    He stroked a lock of hair from his son's forehead. 'Bless you little Mustapha,' he said. He turned to Gülbehar. Her silhouette was outlined against the candle flame. Desire was like a physical blow. He wanted to have her now, pour his seed into her, like a flood, like a river. But that would not do.
    Instead he said: 'We should eat