But that such a splendid woman as the splendid Suleiman’s consort was rumored to have been could have so debased herself was difficult to believe. Safiye found it more reasonable to remember that every litter has its runt and, the more vigorous specimens in this case haying torn each other to pieces in their rivalry, Selim was what remained.
There was no need to consider poison in this case; Suleiman’s heir was busily poisoning himself.
Here, among the Turks, where indulging in wine was a capital offense, Selim was openly given the epithet “The Sot.” The Sultan wrote to his son over and over again, urging him to “relinquish that mad red thing.” To no avail. Safiye had never known such a serious drunk even in Italy, where wine replaced mother’s milk on a toddler’s tongue. Perhaps, she thought—and prided herself on her wisdom—the religious prohibition added to the drink’s attraction, created the very evil it sought to eliminate. And surely, having grown into his prime and past it, waiting for his father to die—surely this aggravated the prince’s condition as well.
Selim being what he was, yes, it was best to be loved by his son, Murad. Safiye folded herself more firmly in her wrapper, pressing the memory of love’s attentions to her breast to keep it safe, a prisoner there. Here, at the bottom of power’s ladder, she could mistress not only carnal needs, but the young prince’s education and political interests as well. She had turned Murad from the opium, to which he’d been a slave when she’d first been given to him, to the equally alluring but more influential inner workings of the Divan.
Even Suleiman, the most powerful man on earth, had sat up and crinkled his eyes in pleasure to see this change in his grandson. The Sultan’s letters to him, which Murad shared with her, contained no scoldings or fatherly threats, but were written man to man and concerned the most urgent affairs of state. If Selim was the weakness, Murad was the tool with which she had to work.
Someday she would have a son, too, of course, to be her tool. But there was no need to look so far ahead yet. The getting of children was for the less resourceful, the more desperate. Those who had no looks that pregnancy might erase. In the meantime, the Quince’s pessaries of medicated tar and sheep-tail fat conspired to keep Safiye’s present powers unburdened.
The request to sail down the coast had been a setback. That was Murad’s doing: he frequently let romance clutter his desires. In his wish to delight her, he had pushed too fast too soon. And in a totally irrelevant direction. Murad never fully realized that if he wanted to please Safiye, he should seek the Sultan’s favor and trust, not occasions for voluptuousness.
Safiye felt herself blush with shame at the memory of the leaky ketch floundering in mid-Bosphorus and was glad, for once, for the concealing veils she wore. She had learned a lesson: she must always keep a careful rein on her lover’s propensity. Every sign now read, however, that the more sober behavior she had demanded of her prince since that escapade had restored him in the old man’s good graces. Perhaps even elevated him higher.
Mentally, she washed the blush from herself and returned to the question: How best to make use of this favor for Murad’s benefit? And for her own, of course. A young man could grow bored, indolent—self-destructive like his father—if his prowess wasn’t continually challenged.
So might a young woman, for that matter. This particular young woman, anyway, Safiye thought, hugging herself again.
“Why won’t you let me buy you a eunuch, my love?” the young prince would always ask her whenever she hinted at these concerns to him. “I’ll give you the money. Get yourself a eunuch, the best money can buy. Then you won’t have to be so beholden to my mother and her khuddam. Anything you wanted, anyplace you wanted to go, wouldn’t have to be screened by those watchdogs first. It would be very liberating for you.”
“Liberating” seemed an odd word when it was not less she wanted, not out of the harem, but more, deeper, into the controlling heart. Still, she’d agree, “It would be nice. If I could find the right eunuch.”
Murad would say something like, “I’m sure you could if you’d only look.” He’d nuzzle her neck so she couldn’t tell exactly what he said, other things on his mind. “You’re the cleverest woman I know.” Some such nonsense, stating the obvious.
She would return the nuzzle, just enough. Then she would hint, “Your sister Esmikhan Sultan has a eunuch. That Venetian Veniero.”
“Who? Abdullah?” Maybe he’d say it. Or maybe he’d start on her buttons with his teeth.
“He has some intelligence.” He could even he dangerous, with what he knows. She’d keep that part to herself. What he could tell you about me—“—My love.” That part aloud, with the proper groan of desire as Murad found her breast.
Everyone considered Veniero a mistake of the cutter’s knife and of the marketplace. They pitied Esmikhan his youth, his unsettled nature, his lack of experience. But compared to everything else Safiye had seen—and, my dear princeling, I have looked—Veniero-Abdullah had promise.
She’d have to be careful: Murad would be in her now and each thrust would bring a new descriptive word to her mind: whiny, shrill, gossipy, silly half-men like so many geese. They were worse than the lay sisters in the convent. Of course she meant the eunuchs.
He’d hitch up her thighs awkwardly, so it hurt, with no thought beyond the best and swiftest striking of his immediate goal.
And then the prince would collapse across her, and she’d toy
