May 1538. Sultan Suleiman I, ruler of the Ottoman Empire, and his 16 year old daughter, Mihrimah, stop for the night in the fortified town of Chilia in southern Bessarabia, near the western shores of the Black Sea. The local Bey arranges a small dinner party for his royal guests.
1. The gift
"You and your daughter honour us greatly, your highness," says my father nervously to the imposing figure of his highness, Sultan Suleiman Khan.
I wait at the side of the room with my mother and younger sister, Stefanka. I know my mother would rather not be here, and my sister is too young to understand the danger. This royal visit was announced as a goodwill tour, but I know there are huge political undertones. The Grand Vizier in Constantinople is far from pleased at the failure of my father to placate the growing unrest in southern Bessarabia.
I sympathize with my father's plight. He is responsible for protecting the Empire's borders in this province, and the source of the unrest comes from Moldavia, across our borders to the north-west. The Moldavian ruler, Peter IV Rareş, is once again being a fickle ally to the Ottoman Empire. For years he has relied on Ottoman protection from the Austrian Empire to the west, and the Kingdom of Poland to the north. However, more recently, he has aided Arch-duke Ferdinand of Austria against Ottoman interests. And now Rareş is trying to seize this province as part of his territory by reviving claims that all of southern Bessarabia is part of Moldavia. The Sultan's presence here is a clear signal to the local population that Rareş will not be allowed to expand his realm without a fight.
The Sultan shows no outward sign of his feelings about my father's management of the crisis. He is polite without being overly friendly or hostile. His daughter, the Sultana, is equally polite. As a woman, she is not expected to involve herself in politics, but as soon as I see her, I know she is very aware of the political situation. We bow our heads and curtsy as the Sultan and his daughter walk towards us.
"My wife, Isabella and daughters Nilüfer and Stefanka," says my father as soon as he realises the Sultan is expecting an introduction to us.
The six of us sit on cushions around a low table while the food is served. This is a new experience for Stefanka and I, as we normally take our meals European style, sat on chairs at a high table. But the tradition in Constantinople is to have meals at a low table, and my father isn't feeling secure enough in his position to risk any slight against the Sultan.
Despite the serious political situation, the dinner conversation is pleasant and varied. I learn that the Sultan is a skilled jeweller and he has personally made the gorgeous emerald ring currently adorning his daughter's finger. Like a good daughter, I refrain from entering into the conversation until Mihrimah asks me a question.
"I like the way you do your hair, Nilüfer. Do you style it by yourself?"
"Yes, my Sultana," I reply, fortunately remembering the correct formal address for a female member of the Ottoman dynasty.
"Nilüfer has quite a talent with hair, my Sultana," says father. "She will happily show your maid some of her tricks."
"Alas, Mihrimah's maid proved to be too timid a girl to endure the challenges of our tour," says the Sultan. "We sent her back to Constantinople only this morning. I was going to ask you for the loan of one of your servants to attend to Mihrimah's personal needs."
"I would be honoured if you would accept Nilüfer's services for as long as you need them, my Sultana," says my father.
I notice I don't get asked about the subject, and I'm not certain father intended for my term of service to include leaving our family home and joining the royal party on their tour. Whatever my father really meant doesn't alter the life changing events that follow. By the following afternoon legal documents have been signed and I'm now a concubine of the Imperial Harem of Sultan Suleiman. I've been gifted away as a slave. An act which at least proves my father's fealty to the Sultan, and secures my father's shaky position as Bey for a while longer. He gets another chance at restoring peace in our region.
I could complain about the loss of my freedom, but I've known for years that my freedom only existed on paper. In another year, if not less, a marriage would have been arranged for me. Most likely to a wealthy merchant or teacher. Someone much older than I, who is financially secure and looking for a nubile young bride to provide him with heirs. At least this way I get to see some of the world and a chance for some adventure.
The royal party leaves Chilia two days later with the Sultana's new maid in tow. I overhear that our destination is to be the Black Sea port of Akkerman, three days travel to the north. My family farewells are tearful but I'm over my initial shock. To be honest, I'm looking forward to my new life. I'm not allowed to bring more than a few personal possessions. My mother's small locket, now around my neck, provides my only tangible memento of my parents and sister.
I travel on the baggage wagon with two of the Sultan's male servants. We trundle along at the rear of the royal train, which consists of forty advisers, servants and soldiers, as well as the royal pair riding near the front of the column. A couple of local men hired by one of the Sultan's advisers act as guides. Some advisers and servants are well armed and look capable of assisting the soldiers … members of the famed Janissaries … in the event of an ambush. I hope for my father's sake that no ambush occurs within the borders of his province.
Each time we stop I'm expected to run to the front of the train to attend to any of Mihrimah's needs. It's an unsatisfactory arrangement for both of us. An arrangement brought about by my predecessor's inability to ride a horse. But I'm not limited in that way. As soon as I mention that I can ride a horse, I'm promptly assigned a mount and thereafter ride near the front of the column. It's a more dangerous position in the event of an ambush, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
On the second morning after leaving Chilia, we turn off the road to Akkerman and head north-west towards Moldavia. I'm not told the reason why the Sultan has chosen to do this. Even though Moldavia is technically an ally, an incursion into Rareş' territory is fraught with danger. To expose the Sultan in this way strikes me as foolhardy. But nobody asks for my opinion.
We follow the narrow track for most of the day before reaching the road linking Palada and Akkerman. To my surprise we turn west towards Palada before stopping for the night at a small village. The villagers are nervous about our presence and are reluctant to do more than offer the most basic of assistance. Mihrimah and I are billeted with a widow who lives in a small cottage in the centre of the village. The Sultan has accommodation at the nearby local inn. Two Janissaries are assigned to stand guard over our billet.
"You look worried, Nilüfer," says Mihrimah as I brush her hair before bed. "What is troubling you?"
"Forgive me, my Sultana," I reply. "It is not my place to question the decisions of my betters. But why have we crossed into Moldavia? Our party isn't large enough to deter an attack from the garrison at Palada once they get word of our presence."
"Moldavia! We are supposed to be six leagues inside Ottoman territory. Are you sure, Nilüfer?"
"Yes, my Sultana," I reply. "I travelled with my father as far as this village when the Empire last offered military support to Rareş. That was four years ago. Our relations with Rareş have deteriorated a great deal since then. Ask the widow if you don't believe me."
Mihrimah doesn't waste time trying to locate the widow, whom we haven't seen for over an hour. Instead she summons one of the Janissaries standing outside the cottage. An agonising twenty minutes passes before a knock on the door to our billet tells us Sultan Suleiman has arrived in response to Mihrimah's request for an audience with her father.
"What troubles you so much that you need to see me tonight, Mihrimah?" asks the Sultan.
"Nilüfer has informed me that this village is inside the borders of Moldavia, papa," says Mihrimah. "You told me the other day that you did not intend to cross the Empire's borders. I was wondering why you have changed your mind?"
The Sultan doesn't immediately answer Mihrimah's question. Instead he goes to the door and talks to one of the Janissaries standing guard. The soldier promptly leaves on whatever errand he has been given.
"There is nothing for you to worry about, my daughter. We shall ask one of the villagers."
Fifteen minutes later the whole party is on alert. All the villagers have slipped away in the dark and our two local guides have gone missing. As the only person left in the party with any local knowledge, my role is suddenly elevated from maid to guide.
"How far away is the border, Nilüfer?" asks the Sultan.
"We entered Moldavia when we crossed the small river just before midday, your highness," I reply. "The border is slightly farther away if we follow the road east towards Akkerman."
"It's too risky to travel that far in the dark," decides the Sultan. "We shall wait here until dawn, and then retrace our steps to the border. Everyone needs to be ready to leave at first light."
"Allow me to send a fast rider to Chilia tonight to notify the Bey of our situation," says the Janissary commander. "He can send reinforcements to meet us in case we need help."
The Sultan agrees and a message is sent to my father to muster his troops and march towards the border. Whether my father's troops can arrive in time to help us depends on how quickly the Moldavian garrison at Palada can react, and what action they take.
I try to emulate the outwardly calm behaviour of the Sultan and his daughter. The situation is dangerous, but not hopeless. We must assume that the local guides were traitors and have steered us into a trap. But the absence of an attack before now suggests the Moldavian garrison at Palada is not in a position to take immediate advantage of the situation.
While outwardly calm, I can tell Mihrimah is worried. She keeps twisting the emerald ring around her finger. The Sultan sees her nervousness.
"Always remember you are a member of the Ottoman dynasty, Mihrimah," says the Sultan, taking hold of her hands. "Let the emerald ring on your finger always remind you of your heritage. The blood of ten Ottoman Sultans flows through your veins. Be brave; be strong; and the people will follow you."