Through the latticed balcony window, Peresto's eyes swept over the assembled men – the Ottoman dignitaries in the hall and the European dignitaries in the galleries. At the centre stood the throne, on a carpet which only the Sultan was permitted to impinge on. Above hovered a chandelier, four and a half tons, gifted by Queen Victoria at the inauguration of the new palace. 

Whenever Peresto looked at it, she imagined it crushing the golden throne beneath. Now she did a double take and threw a questioning glance at Mustafa who shook his head. Beneath the chandelier, the throne was empty. Where was the Sultan? For weeks now, he had been invisible, barricaded in his rooms together with his young favourite, a seventeen-year-old Circassian. But to be absent from a formal ceremony, that was unheard of.

To the left of the vacant throne, in the chair of the Grand Vizier, Peresto recognised the weak and malleable Mehmed Rusdi. It meant that, despite his absence, the Sultan had made his appointment. To the left of Rusdi sat Midhat Pasha, tall, strong and intellectual, and Huseyin Avni, a short military man. Both exuded confidence and purpose. They would need it. The appointment of Rusdi as Grand Vizier signalled that the Sultan intended to continue acting without taking advice from his Ministers.

With a growing sense of unease, her eyes returned to the glaringly empty throne.

"They too are wondering," she mumbled with a nod to the European Ambassadors in the galleries.

They moved nervously from cluster to cluster, sharing intelligence with darting glances and, no doubt, debating the Sultan's absence. Had the empire lost its head? If so, who was in charge? All valid questions.

Her eyes moved over the men's familiar faces, and noticed that, like the Sultan, Ambassador Ignatieff, the damned snake, was conspicuously absent. She wrung her hands to warm her slender fingers.

"Did the Sultan leave his apartment this morning?"

Mustafa shrugged, and with a few signs, offered to find out.

"No, leave it," she said.

Suddenly, she had the uncanny feeling of being watched. Sir Elliot, the British Ambassador, had lifted his gaze to the latticed window of the balcony, as if he knew she was there. Recently, she had received a desperate plea from him. It had been months since he, the representative of the Queen and the empire's closest ally, had been received by the Sultan. It was as insulting as it was dangerous that the Sultan took counsel from the Russian Ambassador and no one else. Something had to be done. To protect British interests – their common interests against Russian aggression – he, Sir Elliot, had to know the Sultan's mind. Could Peresto speak with the Sultan or the Valide on his behalf, perhaps even arrange an audience?

Of course she could not. It didn't mean Sir Elliot was wrong. There was cause for real concern. In the past few months alone, Abdulaziz had spent nearly a million Turkish pounds on gratifying the whims of his little favourite. Meanwhile, the empire suffered a famine, the chain of nationalist rebellions in the Balkans intensified, Christians and Muslims slaughtered each other, and the Russian Tsar assembled troops on their borders. No wonder the tensions in the city were almost palpable.

She had ignored Sir Elliot's request, not because she was unsympathetic, but because communicating with him was risky and pointless. There was nothing she could do. Now, with this unexpected development, and the Sultan announcing the appointment of a new government in absentia, she – like Sir Elliot, perhaps – sensed both urgency and opportunity.

Mustafa made some quick signs: The Valide Pertevniyal.

With a soft rustling of fabric and a cloud of sweet perfume, the Valide came into view, trailing the Kizlar Agha and a suite of women. They must have been watching the throne room from the balcony on the opposite wall, and were now hurrying back to the harem. To search for the Sultan, no doubt. Even at a distance the Valide looked awe-inspiring: black dress, thick black hair, dark, sparkling eyes and heavy jewellery. A force of nature. Nothing like the other pampered Circassian women of the harem.

As a young woman, Pertevniyal had seduced Medjid's father, Sultan Mahmoud. He had caught sight of her with a bundle of fresh linen on her head. Young, luxuriantly beautiful, with sharp peasant wit and the firm hands of a Stamboul bath attendant, Pertevniyal had charmed and bedded him. And here she was now, Valide. Peresto could feel the magnetic force of her attraction still, even as an old woman.

Peresto dropped into a deep curtsey, her head bowed in reverence.

"Valide," she said in greeting.

"Princess Peresto, I hope Prince Hamid is feeling better."

"Much better, my Lady."

"And I hope you have found a worthy replacement for Jurad."

With the weight of the Valide's gaze on her, and an internal smile, Peresto turned toward the latticed window and the ceremonial hall. "The Sultan has dismissed the Grand Vizier," she said. "I applaud him for such a wise decision and pray it will calm the softa."

Despite the sweet tone of her words, the cynicism did not escape the Valide. She drew herself up to her full height, her bejewelled fingers tightened on her fan, and her dark eyes ignited with raw, ruthless force. "The Sultan loves his subjects too much, he cannot refuse them."

"Of course." Peresto's eyes lingered on the Valide's face. "And Prince Yusufeddin has recovered after his encounter with the softa, tabarak Allah, blessings of God. The experience must have...shaken him."

It was a veiled reference to Yusufeddin's wetting of his pants, enough to sting. Yusufeddin's embarrassing mishap was not official information, so the mere suspicion Peresto knew about it would, in the eyes of the Valide, be both humiliating and subtle proof of Peresto's power. As if Peresto had said: Nothing escapes me, I've got eyes and ears everywhere. I know your grandson pissed his pants. And I know why your son dismissed the Grand Vizier, I know he is trembling with fear.

The Valide touched her lucky hamza hand pendant and her eyes narrowed. The Kizlar Agha whispered something in her ear. The old lady's eyes turned to the latticed window, to the empty throne below. She shifted restlessly, eager to move on.

Nothing more was said. With an impatient wave of her hand to dismiss Peresto, the Valide started down the stairs. Peresto let out a slow breath as her retinue disappeared from view.

There was no point in wasting more time waiting for the ceremony to start, so Peresto hurried back to her apartment. As she crossed the Blue Salon, back in the harem, a woman emerged from behind a drapery, tall and thin, with a white face that had a sickly, greenish sheen to it. The edginess of her gestures, the runny nose, the rings of sweat under her armpits were all signs of withdrawal. Mustafa pushed aside the woman who collapsed on the floor, but grabbed the hem of Peresto's skirts with bony fingers.

"Please, Peresto Princess Sultana, I have something for you."

"I told you not to bother me again."

"But I have something to show you, my Lady."

The girl, Ayse, had once been a rising dancing star in the harem, but morphine had robbed her of all talents except for one. By channelling her psychic gift, she could read the future in tarot cards. For this reason, the Valide often invited her to take part in occult seances. Recently, Peresto had caught Ayse stealing. Theft, no matter how insignificant, was punishable by whipping and expulsion from the Imperial harem. Instead of denouncing Ayse to the Kizlar Agha, however, Peresto had offered her money in return for information, which mostly turned out to be of little interest. "Don't spend it on morphine," Peresto told her every time, but the girl was hopelessly weak. "It numbs the pain, I can't do without it," she said.

"Have her brought to my study," Peresto instructed Mustafa. "Discreetly." She thought: this is the last time.

Once they were alone, Ayse anxiously scanned the room and whispered, "May Allah bless your wisdom and generosity."

"Speak up. What do you have?"

"You must see with your own eyes or I fear you will not believe me, Princess."

"Only last week, I paid you good money for worthless information."

"I know, my Lady, forgive me, it was a mistake. But what I have for you today, it's good. I swear it."

With a sigh, Peresto dropped a gold coin into the girl's hand. "This is to leave me alone."

Ayse looked at the coin in her palm. "May Allah reward your goodness, my Lady. You told me to come to you if I had information. It's about the Sultan." She spoke in breathless gasps with her haunted eyes on the coin. "For a thousand in gold my information is yours."

Peresto raised an eyebrow. She rarely paid over fifty, or a hundred, for scraps of information. But if this was about the Sultan... "Alright, I'll come with you. If your information is as good as you say, you'll have your gold. If it's not, for the love of Allah, I will make you regret swindling me."

When she realised Ayse was taking her back to the selamlik, an irritated scowl crossed her face. Ayse did not belong to the select group of women permitted to cross, unseen, over from the harem into that part of the palace which harboured the offices of state. If the girl claimed to have seen the Sultan there, with her own eyes, she was telling a tall tale. Peresto's scowl made Ayse agitated and expansive. In a flurry of whispers, she insisted that the Valide had sent her on a mission to the selamlik that morning.

"My mission required absolute discretion, so the Valide asked me. She trusts me," she said proudly.

"And your mission was to find the Sultan?"

The girl nodded. "The Sultan was to dress for the throne room ceremony but was nowhere to be found. I was on my way to the Valide now, to let her know I found him. But I came to you first."

With trembling fingers she brought out a paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to Peresto. It was a pass which admitted Ayse to the selamlik and it carried the stamp of the Valide Pertevniyal.

"So, where is the Sultan?"

"In the Panoramic Salon, my Lady."

Feeling a sense of dread, Peresto made her way alone, past the Gate of Felicity to the selamlik, through a network of discreet corridors where women did not risk crossing paths with a man. She continued along a gallery facing the garden. Through an open window came a cool breeze. It was a cloudless, spring day.

As she approached the Panoramic Salon, a mystifying sound spilled through the doors – an insistent, high-pitched chirp followed by a repeated cackle. For her life, she could not understand what it was.

She entered the salon through a door hidden in the wood panel. The room was a large, open space, like an inner courtyard, with a spectacular double view to the south of the Bosphorus, and of the palace gardens to the north. From behind a silk screen, she peeked through the strategically placed holes there, for seeing without being seen, and covered her mouth in disbelief.

Through the enormous hall raced clucking chickens, wings flapping, feathers flying, panicked eyes popping out of their little heads. Under the huge, gilded table they scuttled, zig-zagging between scattered chairs. And chasing after them was a half-naked, perspiring man. Peresto blinked, and blinked again. It was Sultan Abdulaziz, Sovereign of the Sublime House of Osman, Commander of the Faithful, Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe, and he was squealing like a fat pig. Five blank-faced chamberlains looked on. In the gilded French style sofa, the Sultan's eighteen-year-old bejewelled favourite clapped enthusiastically, and standing next to her, Ambassador Ignatieff cheered.

From under a chair, a chicken dashed out. The Sultan plunged and grabbed it with two hands. With the chicken clutched to his naked breast, he crawled to his feet, licking drops of sweat off his upper lip.

"Medal," he cried.

The Ambassador snapped his fingers, at which a chamberlain presented a velvet cushion, and on it – Peresto gave a little laugh, like a shock – lay the Nisan-i Imtiyaz. A diamond encrusted medal usually awarded for outstanding services to the Ottoman state. Another chamberlain gave a drumroll, the giggling favourite jumped to her feet and curtsied in exaggerated reverence, and Ambassador Ignatieff – that two-faced traitor – hung the medal around the chicken's neck, then bowed deeply before the beaming Sultan.

It was sickening. While ministers and dignitaries froze in the banquet hall, while the empire shuddered from the pressure of its enemies, while his subjects died from rebellion and famine, the Sultan chased chickens and awarded them medals of the highest honour. She had thought him egocentric and deluded. Everyone assembled in the throne room at this very moment did. They were all concerned. But this? This was different. It was not delusion, it was madness.

In the salon, the naked, sweating Sultan shrieked with laughter. Her heart sank, overwhelmed by shame and disgust. Was this what the Osman dynasty had come to?

At once, she realised the Valide knew, and had known for some time, that her son was irretrievably lost. It was her secret, but the moment the world found out, the Sultan would be deposed. No wonder the Valide had appeared distracted when their paths crossed in the throne room.

And no wonder the Valide had secretly encouraged government to change the line of succession in favour of her grandson, Yusufeddin. Fortunately, Peresto had learnt of her machinations and used her influence to prevent it. She smiled internally. With the dismissal of the Grand Vizier and the return to government of Midhat Pasha, the Valide had lost that battle. Midhat Pasha would protect the throne for Medjid's sons. That too, the Valide knew. It was both reassuring and yet not at all. A new feeling overcame her. Apprehension.

She hurried back to the harem, consumed by a mixture of disgust and fear. Her mouth felt dry, her mind raced. The Valide would not abandon her efforts to secure the throne for her bloodline. Somehow, she would have to get rid of Medjid's sons. Cornered like a rat, the Valide would be at her most dangerous. Gloves would come off.

This morning, when they'd met on the balcony, had Peresto not registered a menacing undertone in the Valide's innocent inquiry about Hamid's health? And the Kizlar Agha's smile, not just sardonic but a cautionary message: we're coming for you. But how and when? Who would she target first, the Crown Prince or Hamid? Or both simultaneously? How could Peresto protect Hamid? And what about the Crown Prince – should she warn him?

She stopped abruptly, inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

If Murad was killed, and Abdulaziz deposed, the throne would go to Hamid. It was a grisly, callous thought which made her body break into a cold sweat. It was a thought she would not share with Hamid. At the moment, he was disoriented and lost, so she couldn't trust him to think straight. Change was coming, and that's what she had to focus on now, to guide Hamid through this dangerous succession.

"You did well," she told Ayse when she was back in her study, and handed the girl a purse with gold coins. "Don't spend it all on morphine."

"I have more for you, my Lady."

"More?"

"It'll cost you another five-hundred."

Ayse pocketed the money, and in a whisper which was barely audible the words poured out of her mouth. After the May blue-hand ceremony, when she'd read the tarot cards for the Valide, she'd seen a vision. A prophecy.

"A prophecy?"

"Clear as crystal."

Peresto smirked.

"I know what I saw."

"Well, spit it out."

Ayse's eyes opened wide. "Before the end of the summer, Prince Hamid will be proclaimed Sultan."

Peresto felt her stomach spasm, her voice dropped to a whisper. "That's what the cards told you?"

Pleased at the impact of her words, the girl nodded.

"Hamid Sultan?"

"Yes."

"Not Crown Prince Murad?"

"Prince Hamid."

Peresto put out a hand against the wall to steady herself.

"What did the Valide say?"

Ayse trembled.

"She melted wax and made a doll."

Peresto swallowed. "Of Hamid?"

Ayse nodded. "She burnt incense and asked the spirits to kill him."

With fresh money in her pocket, the girl kissed the hem of Peresto's skirts and departed. Mustafa appeared next to Peresto. The shock was as plain on his face as it must have been on hers. Without a tongue, his hands were his voice, and now he slid his index finger across his throat.

_________________________

Author's note

Once a Sultan's concubine had given birth to a son, her fate became linked to his. She virtually lost her own name and, known as "mother of the prince", her life became devoted to ensuring her son's success.

When a Sultan died, the mother of the Crown Prince became Valide and her first task was to ensure the smooth accession of her son. Her power was intrinsically tied to his, but she also depended on her network of influence. Her daughters and freed slaves might be married to important dignitaries, and she might have considerable influence over the palace eunuchs. Most important, the Valide's role was to prevent the extinction of the dynasty, by encouraging the birth of princes and by preventing their execution. Even if, in the story, one of the main characters, Peresto, was only Hamid's step-mother, I imagine that this is how she viewed her role.

The embedded portrait is of Kösem Sultan (c. 1589-1651), one of the most powerful and influential women in Ottoman history. She was the consort of Ottoman Sultan Ahmed I, and the first and only woman in Ottoman history to have the "Valide Sultan" title during the reigns of two sons. She first became Valide Sultan in 1623 when her son Murad IV ascended to the throne. After Murad IV's death in 1640, his brother Ibrahim became the sultan, and Kösem kept her position as Valide Sultan. When Ibrahim I was deposed and executed in 1648, his son Mehmed IV, who was only six years old, became the new sultan, and initially, Kösem acted as the regent for her young grandson.

However, Mehmed IV's mother, Turhan Sultan, with the support of the Janissaries and other factions within the court, organised a coup against her. The coup resulted in Kösem Sultan's assassination on September 2, 1651, at the hands of Turhan Sultan's supporters.