watching them go about their usual activities. He listens
to the older slave women tell stories while the concubines are
engaged in their handicrafts, watching the children play around,
splashing in the fountains and running about the gardens of the
seven harem courtyards. He sits there, waiting for the bubbles of
excitement to rise in him in response to anything at all – a
seductive movement, a slender curve of the body, a smile, the sound
of a voice. He never knows on whose cushion he will end up. He
likes to be spontaneous and care-free, just the opposite of what he
has to be on the other side of the door, in the palace, in that
other world that is so demanding, so cruel, so quick to judge.
Today, as he enters the first and the largest
courtyard, Chamar stops to admire a peaceful sight. Ten of his
women are sitting on the grass with their needlework, watching a
flock of little girls running in circles around the marble fountain
shaped like a giant lotus flower, water flowing down its numerous
petals into a basin of carved lotus leaves. Every once in a while
the girls end up in the water and the yard fills with their happy
screams.
Noticing him, the women rise to their feet.
One of them, a tall girl with long flowing hair, tries to round up
the children, but it is impossible—like trying to catch a flock of
playful birds. She glances at the sultan and he gestures for her to
stop.
“Greetings, master,” the eldest concubine
begins.
“How fare you, my beauties?” Chamar asks,
settling down among them and motioning for them to sit down.
“Sad, without the sunlight of your presence,
master,” she continues, smiling at Chamar.
“I am sorry I was away so long, Ana’id,”
Chamar says, regarding her through half-closed eyelids. Ana’id has
seniority in the harem, approaching her thirtieth year, but she is
still as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so—with ten years and two
daughters to her credit and a mature beauty that Chamar finds very
appealing. The other concubines treat her as their older sister,
the one to whom they can bring their problems.
“I hope your majesty fares well,” Ana’id
says, bending her head to the side, a strand of her dark hair
falling over the thin oval of her face. Her eyes, in the soft light
of the setting sun, are the color of dark honey. Chamar has almost
no hope for a son with her, but she is still enormously attractive
to him.
“Affairs of state have kept me away,” he
says. “Is everything here well?”
“Zarema!” the girl who was trying to catch
the children suddenly says and stops, blushing, as the sultan turns
to look at her. This one, named Leila, is new. She was brought into
the harem a few weeks ago from Megina, and she is still shy of her
new master. Chamar likes her for being unusually tall and thin,
almost his height, with very white skin and straight black hair,
reaching almost down to her ankles. He feels a desire awaken in
him, but he doesn’t want to rush it.
“What about Zarema, my pretty Leila?”
he asks, making her blush even more.
“She wants to say that Zarema is about to
have a baby,” Ana’id explains. “Anytime now. The midwife is with
her.”
Another baby. Maybe, finally, a son? The
sultan’s heart beats faster. He had forgotten Zarema’s baby was due
so soon. He stopped seeing her months ago, when her belly became
too big for his taste. And now he is about to see another fruit of
his sport, his pleasure, his game. Chamar raises his face into the
reddish stream of the waning sunlight and makes a silent prayer to
the gods, the only ones who have the power to give him what he
wants.
Something heavy lands in his lap; and he
looks down to a girl of about five, her dark eyes shining with
mischief, fluffy hair tousled from running around. One of the women
hurries toward them and stops, seeing Chamar smile to the
child.
“What is your name, little one?” Chamar
asks.
“Chamarat Ida,” the girl proudly says,
stumbling through the
to the older slave women tell stories while the concubines are
engaged in their handicrafts, watching the children play around,
splashing in the fountains and running about the gardens of the
seven harem courtyards. He sits there, waiting for the bubbles of
excitement to rise in him in response to anything at all – a
seductive movement, a slender curve of the body, a smile, the sound
of a voice. He never knows on whose cushion he will end up. He
likes to be spontaneous and care-free, just the opposite of what he
has to be on the other side of the door, in the palace, in that
other world that is so demanding, so cruel, so quick to judge.
Today, as he enters the first and the largest
courtyard, Chamar stops to admire a peaceful sight. Ten of his
women are sitting on the grass with their needlework, watching a
flock of little girls running in circles around the marble fountain
shaped like a giant lotus flower, water flowing down its numerous
petals into a basin of carved lotus leaves. Every once in a while
the girls end up in the water and the yard fills with their happy
screams.
Noticing him, the women rise to their feet.
One of them, a tall girl with long flowing hair, tries to round up
the children, but it is impossible—like trying to catch a flock of
playful birds. She glances at the sultan and he gestures for her to
stop.
“Greetings, master,” the eldest concubine
begins.
“How fare you, my beauties?” Chamar asks,
settling down among them and motioning for them to sit down.
“Sad, without the sunlight of your presence,
master,” she continues, smiling at Chamar.
“I am sorry I was away so long, Ana’id,”
Chamar says, regarding her through half-closed eyelids. Ana’id has
seniority in the harem, approaching her thirtieth year, but she is
still as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so—with ten years and two
daughters to her credit and a mature beauty that Chamar finds very
appealing. The other concubines treat her as their older sister,
the one to whom they can bring their problems.
“I hope your majesty fares well,” Ana’id
says, bending her head to the side, a strand of her dark hair
falling over the thin oval of her face. Her eyes, in the soft light
of the setting sun, are the color of dark honey. Chamar has almost
no hope for a son with her, but she is still enormously attractive
to him.
“Affairs of state have kept me away,” he
says. “Is everything here well?”
“Zarema!” the girl who was trying to catch
the children suddenly says and stops, blushing, as the sultan turns
to look at her. This one, named Leila, is new. She was brought into
the harem a few weeks ago from Megina, and she is still shy of her
new master. Chamar likes her for being unusually tall and thin,
almost his height, with very white skin and straight black hair,
reaching almost down to her ankles. He feels a desire awaken in
him, but he doesn’t want to rush it.
“What about Zarema, my pretty Leila?”
he asks, making her blush even more.
“She wants to say that Zarema is about to
have a baby,” Ana’id explains. “Anytime now. The midwife is with
her.”
Another baby. Maybe, finally, a son? The
sultan’s heart beats faster. He had forgotten Zarema’s baby was due
so soon. He stopped seeing her months ago, when her belly became
too big for his taste. And now he is about to see another fruit of
his sport, his pleasure, his game. Chamar raises his face into the
reddish stream of the waning sunlight and makes a silent prayer to
the gods, the only ones who have the power to give him what he
wants.
Something heavy lands in his lap; and he
looks down to a girl of about five, her dark eyes shining with
mischief, fluffy hair tousled from running around. One of the women
hurries toward them and stops, seeing Chamar smile to the
child.
“What is your name, little one?” Chamar
asks.
“Chamarat Ida,” the girl proudly says,
stumbling through the
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