Chapter 1: Arrival in the harem

“You are not allowed to die,” says the burly sailor. “You are the sultan’s slave. You may only die if he orders your death.”

His words are addressed to Alexandra, but they make me sit up with a jolt. It’s a firm reminder of my ... our ... predicament. Alexandra and I are locked in the hold of a small merchant ship with a dozen other girls. We have been at sea for two days and we’ve no idea how much longer our journey will take.

Less than a month ago, our lives had been so different. So carefree. That was before the Crimean Tartars came into our towns and villages. Their frequent raids into Polish territory had previously been confined to the borderlands. Well away from where we lived. Besides, the Tartars had never previously raided towns as large as the one where I lived. We had all grown up listening to cautionary tales of the Tartars’ lust for loot and slaves. Their reputation for ruthlessness and brutality is notorious. The stories both scared and excited us. After all, they were just stories. Stories our parents told us to make us behave.

Despite the tales of death and kidnapping, both Alexandra and I had always thought we were safe. We lived a long way from the Crimea. The local garrison would surely deter any attack. That false sense of security was shared by everyone where we lived. It’s an error for which our parents, and many other hapless townspeople, have now paid for with their lives. Alexandra and I could easily have been cut down next to our murdered families, but the Tartars obviously thought two pretty girls in their late teens would fetch a handsome price in the flesh markets of the Crimea. Valuable enough to justify the trouble of hauling us hundreds of miles to their slave markets.

And so it proved. Two weeks later, Alexandra and I, along with thirty other captured women and children from the same raid, were placed on the auction block in the Black Sea port of Kaffa, and sold. The degrading process was mercifully short, although none of us liked being examined as though we were so much prime meat. At the time I had no idea who had purchased Alexandra and I, and we had already learned that asking questions earned us a beating. For nearly a week we were kept in a large cage, shackled to the dozen other girls who are now our travelling companions. Only after we are all marched onto this ship did we learn that we had been purchased by the Crimean Khan, and that we are being sent as a gift to the new Ottoman sultan in Constantinople. A gift to prove the Khan’s fealty to the new ruler of the ever expanding Ottoman Empire.

To my surprise, some of the girls think we are fortunate. Compared to many of the alternative fates for a young slave girl, I suppose we might be considered lucky. But I don’t feel lucky. Alexandra is still beside herself with grief. She secretly refuses to eat, in the hope that she’ll quickly join her family in the afterlife. But her subterfuge is invariably discovered. It’s just such an attempt which angers the man overseeing us in the ship’s hold. That’s when the sailor makes it clear that we no longer have any control over our lives. We are slaves. Our entire existence is determined by a powerful man we may never meet.

Our journey by sea provides sufficient time for curiosity to overcome our mood of despair. Some of the girls have heard stories about the palace harem. Even if only a few of the stories are true, the prospect of living in the sultan’s palace seems better than the numerous less savoury alternatives which could have befallen us. Fortunately Alexandra seems to have lost her obsession with dying. At least for now. Instead she vows to make life as difficult as possible for our new lord and master.

It is mid afternoon when the ship docks in Constantinople. We are told to wash and we are given clean clothes. The new clothes are little more than gauzy wraps, and do little to hide our feminine features. A simple belt made of the same material is all that keeps the wrap in place. The flimsy wrap denies us any protection of our modesty. Our own clothes are so filthy and torn that they are beyond saving. After a thorough inspection by the ship’s captain we disembark and are marched in single file through the busy streets. There are no chains or other restraints this time. It’s so different from our treatment when we were in Kaffa. The crowds clear a path for us as soon as they see the red-coated guards escorting us. In these crowds it would be easy to escape into the bustling side streets. But where would a scantily clad young woman go in this city? None of us speak the local language and a fleeing woman dressed only in a flimsy wrap would probably end up in a worse situation than the one she fled. The lack of restraints probably means our guards know an escape attempt would be futile.

After a while we are marched through a large stone gate and into a different world. I’ve never seen anything so grand. The open space before us can only be the palace grounds of the sultan of the mighty Ottoman Empire. Our destination is not the grand building occupying the middle of the grounds. Instead we are taken towards a smaller building built to one side of the main buildings. Our route passes though another building, which we soon realise houses the kitchens. We can hear a lot of activity, and we can smell cooking from the rooms either side of the narrow passageway we are following. My stomach starts to rumble at the smell of all the food. None of us have had a decent meal since we were captured.