The Kadin by Bertrice Small

solidified—especially since Hadji Bey was quite certain that Prince Ahmed’s preference for young boys negated his chances for having sons. The agha was sure that once the sultan realized what a fine and capable man Selim was, the succession would be changed.
    Selim absorbed the agha’s words carefully. He did not tell his friend that from the time he was old enough to understand, it had been his intention to replace his dead brother on the throne of their father one day. He knew his brothers much better than they knew themselves, and he was neither a hedonistic seeker of personal pleasures like Ahmed, nor a monkish lover of learning like Korkut There had been only one man he had admired in his life, and that man had been his grandfather.
    He had been almost thirteen when the conqueror had died, and he remembered the old man vividly. Mohammed had lived in the Yeni Serai, where he could keep an eye on the construction going on about his new palace. One day he had ordered his grandsons to be brought to him. Both Ahmed and Korkut arrived with retinues befitting their imperial state, but the seven-year-old Selim came with just one attendant
    Mohammed raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. There had been wrestlers for entertainment and Ahmed boasted that he could beat any of them. The old sultan said nothing but eyed the overweight braggart with intense dislike. After that only Selim was invited to the Yeni Serai When Selim asked his grandfather why, the old man replied with an honesty that surprised even himself.
    “Only you, Selim, are worthy to learn what I have to teach.”
    “What is that grandfather?”
    “I will teach you to be a warrior—the greatest warrior ever known. From now on, you will be taught the art of fighting by my own chosen men. Twice each week we will meet secretly, for I do not wish Besma to know of this, and you will show me what you have learned. I myself will teach you the tactics that won me so many battles—and the greatest prize of all, this jewel of a city. When I die, Turkey need not fear for her future, for you will help to protect it.”
    Six years later, Selim attended Mohammed on his deathbed. The last words spoken by Mohammed had been spoken harshly, and only Selim had heard them.
    “You—you must follow my successor!”
    Selim remembered those words. They burned In his mind like hot coals and reaffirmed his secret desire to rule. The agha’s words today pleased him, though he showed no emotion other than agreement to his plans. It was a dangerous and painfully patient game he was being asked to play, but he would enjoy it The logic and skill of tactics had always intrigued him.
    “You smile, my son,” said the agha.
    “I am thinking of the image I must create.” He laughed. “Good Prince Selim! The perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect husband and father. Allah, Hadji Bey! You ask a great deal of a rough soldier. What happens if I do not like the maidens I choose from my father’s harem? A pretty face is not a guarantee of a man’s happiness.”
    The agha smiled “When you choose, I promise you that at least three of the maidens will be to your taste. I go to seek them myself.”
    “So you think you know my tastes?”
    “Beauty, intelligence, warmth, independence, and perhaps a touch of mystery.”
    “Find me one woman with all those traits, Hadji Bey, and I shall be a happy man.”
    “I shall, my prince, and you shall.”
    On Selim’s twenty-fifth birthday, and at the sultan’s order, the entire empire from the Balkans to the borders of Persia, celebrated. Selim had arrived in Constantinople just a week before, and at his father’s order been housed in an apartment in the Yeni Serai.
    Most of his time was spent alone, for the Ottoman court, unlike its counterparts in Western Europe, had no nobility from among which its princes could draw friends. Coupled with his lonely upbringing, his position made him shy and wary. He was more at ease among his Tartars, for