Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

“You said my son would be safe,” Haseki yelled angrily at Khadija—holding Mehmet close to her breast, moving briskly through the lower gardens of the palace.

“My dear....”

“No! You said I had nothing to worry about. My child cannot defend himself,” she continued, rushing ahead of her friend down the gravel path. Peacocks squawked and ran into the foliage.

Khadija followed her to the Shore Pavilion.

Haseki was irate and afraid. She reached the pavilion and climbed the stairs, two at a time, moving to the openness of its verandah where she sat on a large ornate ottoman. Mehmet suckled at her breast as she peered out over the Bosphorus.

Khadija sat alongside, placing her arm around her.

“Please do not be angry, my love.”

Haseki could only glare out into the distance of Asia.

“Murat had a fever. It was Allah’s wish that he be with Him,” she offered.

She stroked Haseki’s arm and rested her head on her shoulder. Mehmet stared up at her as he sucked on the n****e of the exposed breast that no longer provided milk.

“And where is Suleyman at this time of grief?” Haseki muttered.

“He has been with Gulfam each and every night, comforting her. And during the days he wears a hole in the stone floor of Aya Sofya—praying for the soul of his son. He is grieving, my love, for he loves all his sons.”

“Then why hasn’t he been to look in on our Mehmet?” Haseki cried. “And me?”

“Shhh, my love. Give him this time. Give Gulfam this time.”

Haseki persisted in staring out at the horizon, but in time rested her cheek on Khadija’s black locks. Tears escaped her eyes as she cuddled her friend and her baby.

Two weeks later one of Suleyman’s daughters, Fatma, died in her cradle.

The whole harem was silent with grief. Few dared talk—and only then in sobbing whispers.

The next day, the twenty-ninth of October, 1521, the heir to the throne of the Ottoman Empire, Prince Sultan Mahmud Khan, aged eleven, was found dead amongst the cushions of his divan.

His mother, Khanum, fell into shock and lay alone in the dark of her suite. She would not accept visitors or the attempts of the Moor women to feed her. They knocked at her door, but there was no answer. They tried the latch, but it was locked.

Haseki was consumed with fear as she walked down the stairs from her suite to the courtyard. Mehmet had been in her arms for many days. And for many days she had not slept. She felt sick to her stomach, not only due to fear, but because she was once again in the early stages of pregnancy.

She crouched at the fountainhead and ran her fingers through the cooling waters. She sprinkled some of its freshness on her forehead and sat cuddling her child. When the shadows of the beech tree spread across the courtyard, Mahidavran came down from the upper balcony to join her. She was also holding tight to her young Mustafa.

Now the Sultan has only two sons, thought Haseki incredulously: Mustafa who howls at Mahidavran’s side; and my Mehmet who sucks at a breast that no longer contains the milk he desires, that he deserves.

The two Favorites sat side by side in silence—not daring to look each other in the face.

“Mustafa is now first in line for the throne,” Mahidavran finally choked in a grief-stricken exhaustion.

Haseki saw the strain on her face, equal to her own. She placed her hand on Mahidavran’s.

“We must leave this place, Mahidavran. We cannot stay while we do not know what, or who, has killed the children.”

“But it is in the hands of Allah, Haseki. How can we deem to know what He thinks or when He wishes one of our children to be with Him?”

“Still, we must leave. We cannot stay here, not with this grief, not with this unknowing, not with the winter snows and howling winds from the Black Sea about to torment our city once more.”