often have I seen her in the last twelve months? He kissed her hand and Bayezid did the same. Then they stood back, their arms crossed on their breasts as they had been taught to do in the Enderun .
Muomi stood behind her, always there, at her shoulder. How he hated her. Black and sullen and malevolent. She's a witch.
'You've grown into a fine boy, Bayezid. Your tutors say you are a fine horseman and athlete.'
'Thank you, Mother.'
'But you must try harder at your studies. Even when you leave the Enderun , you should never stop learning. If you are ever to become Sultan you will need more than your skill with a javelin and a horse.'
'I will do my best.'
Don't waste your breath, Selim thought. He ignores everything you say. My brother's handsome head is as hollow as a drum.
'And you Selim …' Hürrem sighed. 'They say you are too fond of sweetbreads.'
'I study hard.'
'Really? Your tutors say they have to pound every lesson into your head with their knuckles.'
Yes, they do, and don't think I will ever forget it. 'I will do my best, Mother,' he said, testing the defence his brother had used.
'Your best is not good enough. You are my firstborn. You are the one on whom the hopes of the Osmanlis rest if anything should ever happen to Mustapha.'
Is that entirely true. Mother? I have seen the way you look at my little brother. I think your hopes reside elsewhere. It's never been a secret who your favourite is. But then, he's everyone's favourite, the tutors especially. Everyone except Suleiman. He dotes on my idiot brother Çehangir now that Mehmet is dead. So unlike Mehmet to get sick. Until he died he had done everything right.
But things were changing at last. Now he had a chance to get away from the palace, away from the shadow of Bayezid. When he took up his governorship in Konya, Bayezid would be on the other side of Anatolia, at Amasya. If Fortune were kind he would fall of his horse one day playing çerit .
'You must write to me often,' Hürrem said.
'We will, Mother,' Bayezid said, for both of them.
I will curse you every dawn and evening in my prayers, Selim thought.
'My hopes rest in you,' Hürrem said to Bayezid. Then she turned to Selim with a beatific smile. 'Oh Selim, you are the shape of a watermelon!'
***
The shape of a watermelon.
Selim often wondered who it was he hated the most; himself for not being more like Suleiman or Bayezid, because he was. While he was white and fat, Bayezid was olive and lean and handsome. It was one of life's cruel jokes; two brothers born under the same roof, one with personality and strength and talent, the other without talent at all. He imagined God had a similar sense of humour to his mother.
But now as he said his goodbyes to his mother he remembered again the fragility of his position. When his father died - tomorrow, in thirty years, but someday - the fight for the succession would begin. Mustapha was shahzade , and he guessed that even his noble soul would not shrink from having all of Hürrem's sons eliminated to protect his throne.
If by some great fortune Mustapha were already dead, then the throne should be Selim's. But he did not imagine for an instant that Bayezid would let him have it. One of them would have to die. The Fatih's law allowed for a Sultan to kill all his brothers and their children to protect his succession and the stability of the empire. Would the Yeniçeris support him against his brilliant warrior brother? Unlikely.
A grim future.
'Go in peace,' Hürrem said to Bayezid and Selim.
Peace! As if there was any peace to be head for a son of Suleiman; let alone a watermelon like me.
***
Hürrem stared at the vaulted ceiling. A germ of an idea had insinuated itself into her mind.
Selim ...
Thanks be to God, Selim did not look so much like his real father, the former Chief White Eunuch. Though who would remember him anyway? Those dangerous days in the court of the Eski Saraya were long past and lived on only now in
Muomi stood behind her, always there, at her shoulder. How he hated her. Black and sullen and malevolent. She's a witch.
'You've grown into a fine boy, Bayezid. Your tutors say you are a fine horseman and athlete.'
'Thank you, Mother.'
'But you must try harder at your studies. Even when you leave the Enderun , you should never stop learning. If you are ever to become Sultan you will need more than your skill with a javelin and a horse.'
'I will do my best.'
Don't waste your breath, Selim thought. He ignores everything you say. My brother's handsome head is as hollow as a drum.
'And you Selim …' Hürrem sighed. 'They say you are too fond of sweetbreads.'
'I study hard.'
'Really? Your tutors say they have to pound every lesson into your head with their knuckles.'
Yes, they do, and don't think I will ever forget it. 'I will do my best, Mother,' he said, testing the defence his brother had used.
'Your best is not good enough. You are my firstborn. You are the one on whom the hopes of the Osmanlis rest if anything should ever happen to Mustapha.'
Is that entirely true. Mother? I have seen the way you look at my little brother. I think your hopes reside elsewhere. It's never been a secret who your favourite is. But then, he's everyone's favourite, the tutors especially. Everyone except Suleiman. He dotes on my idiot brother Çehangir now that Mehmet is dead. So unlike Mehmet to get sick. Until he died he had done everything right.
But things were changing at last. Now he had a chance to get away from the palace, away from the shadow of Bayezid. When he took up his governorship in Konya, Bayezid would be on the other side of Anatolia, at Amasya. If Fortune were kind he would fall of his horse one day playing çerit .
'You must write to me often,' Hürrem said.
'We will, Mother,' Bayezid said, for both of them.
I will curse you every dawn and evening in my prayers, Selim thought.
'My hopes rest in you,' Hürrem said to Bayezid. Then she turned to Selim with a beatific smile. 'Oh Selim, you are the shape of a watermelon!'
***
The shape of a watermelon.
Selim often wondered who it was he hated the most; himself for not being more like Suleiman or Bayezid, because he was. While he was white and fat, Bayezid was olive and lean and handsome. It was one of life's cruel jokes; two brothers born under the same roof, one with personality and strength and talent, the other without talent at all. He imagined God had a similar sense of humour to his mother.
But now as he said his goodbyes to his mother he remembered again the fragility of his position. When his father died - tomorrow, in thirty years, but someday - the fight for the succession would begin. Mustapha was shahzade , and he guessed that even his noble soul would not shrink from having all of Hürrem's sons eliminated to protect his throne.
If by some great fortune Mustapha were already dead, then the throne should be Selim's. But he did not imagine for an instant that Bayezid would let him have it. One of them would have to die. The Fatih's law allowed for a Sultan to kill all his brothers and their children to protect his succession and the stability of the empire. Would the Yeniçeris support him against his brilliant warrior brother? Unlikely.
A grim future.
'Go in peace,' Hürrem said to Bayezid and Selim.
Peace! As if there was any peace to be head for a son of Suleiman; let alone a watermelon like me.
***
Hürrem stared at the vaulted ceiling. A germ of an idea had insinuated itself into her mind.
Selim ...
Thanks be to God, Selim did not look so much like his real father, the former Chief White Eunuch. Though who would remember him anyway? Those dangerous days in the court of the Eski Saraya were long past and lived on only now in
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