Nur Banu had arranged an elaborate ceremony whereby every member of the harem—from treasurer to wardrobe mistress, from keeper of the jewels to Mother of the Heir Apparent—would pass in review before her and, by placing her hand under the Queen Mother’s foot, swear her unquestioning obedience to her will. It was along the lines of the more public ceremony a new sultan always held whereby the head of the janissaries (primed by a lavish gift), the head of the enclosed school of pages, of the corps of eunuchs, the poison tasters—all vowed to fulfill the master’s least desire as they loved their lives and Allah.
This ceremony with her enemy’s crimson satin slipper was almost more than Safiye could endure, but she had little choice in the matter. Murad approved his mother’s move and was seated, nodding with agreement, at her side throughout. Safiye dared not even balk. But she comforted herself that oaths by Allah did not mean quite so much to her as they did to people who had been born to that Faith.
And Safiye found herself desperate to please the Sultan at every turn. Now that he was Sultan, she wanted to be at Murad’s side every moment, for every decision and firman. But Constantinople and the Empire at his fingertips gave Murad other diversions he had not had in the provincial sandjak.
The rapid rebuilding of the palace to his own extravagant specifications was, for example, a high priority. Murad had gained a taste for building with his mosque in Magnesia. Now he even ordered the construction of an observatory in the grounds under the direction of the great Egyptian astronomer Takieddin.
This scholar’s observations had led him to theories not unlike those of Copernicus, that Pole who has caused such a flurry in Christendom by saying that the sun, not the earth, is the center of the universe. The same Arabic scholars laid the foundation for both of their work. Takieddin found no more favor for his notions among the Muslim clergy than Copernicus among the Christian.
Perhaps this is just as well. Not that I do not believe these men; their arguments are convincing as far as my knowledge of physics and mathematics will carry me. I just do not think, for the sake of the common man—that man walking behind his oxen on a clear, still day with no time for science—that God should be allowed to be any further above us than a voice will carry.
Be that as it may, in the end, at the Mufti’s insistence, the edifice was turned from an observatory into just another kiosk in the gardens. Instead of allowing the stars to become our guideposts to higher Being and His knowledge, they now serve as they have always done: to mark the leagues of love in nights full of more earthly pursuits.
Now as Sultan, Murad was able to indulge in his fondness for poets, musicians, and dancers as well. He brought artists from as far away as India, no expense barred. A pair of Italian painters were popular for a while, their naturalistic lines finding favor more because they were exotic and magical—like a conjuror who can pull a real orange from midair—than that anyone thought to emulate them. True art, as anyone knows, does not need to copy life exactly, but rather give a light and airy, delicate representation of it so we may see through familiar forms to higher things.
One day, instead of waiting to be called for, an impatient Safiye sent to interrupt her lover’s business with herself. I was present when the reply came.
“My master begs to decline,” Ghazanfer said, his green eyes downcast. “He has just received inspiration for a new poem he would write to share with his friends at their next banquet. He said you would understand.”
A look of absolute panic crossed Safiye’s face before she could check it. She realized she was no longer so young. She had born three children, one dead, one of them a girl. She was twenty-five, an age at which slave girls were customarily retired from waiting on the Sultan, it being assumed that after that age, there was no hope of them catching his eye. They were given to faithful spahis or janissaries to honest wifehood, or they became seamstresses and laundresses to those women who still had hope.
Safiye had taken good care of herself. She had neither borne too many children nor sat too long on cushions to lose her figure. Her hair still had the wonderful luster that had first drawn the Prince to her, but anyone who saw the great baskets of lemons that followed her to the bath each day knew it was no longer so easily come by.
Her influence might last only months, weeks. Maybe one could count it in the stanzas of Murad’s latest poem. Every moment the Sultan spent at some other pursuit was time lost for her. Safiye knew it. And she was scared. Scared as neither pirates nor storms at sea nor roaring flames in the harem had been able to frighten her before.
And so Baffo’s daughter determined to do something neither books nor paintings nor even the stars could compete with her in. By the summer of that year, after two or three dearly bought private interviews with the master, she had accomplished her design.
It was at a party given by Nur Banu in the gardens of the summer palace for the purpose of admiring the lilies in bloom. Aunt Mihrimah was the one who spoke first as Safiye came forward to greet her with a kiss.
“Safiye, my dear, are you—?”
Safiye, who had been wearing heavier garments than the heat would allow and unbuttoning her waist higher than she really needed to yet, was elated that it had been recognized at last. “Yes, madam, it’s true. Gul Ruh will soon have another little cousin to
