Winter ends giving way to Spring, heralding a new beginning. There are no more yellow leaves on the trees, no turbulent winds. Mihrimah Sultana, Hürrem Sultana?s beloved only daughter is growing up in Süleyman the Magnificent?s harem into an amber-haired beauty. She is now seventeen, a ray of sunshine in the harem. She peruses the horizon dreamily from a tourquoise-tiled window, she seess herself as yet another of the waves washing on the shore. She is a talented poet with a mellifluous song always on her rosy lips. She has been properly educated and become a true princess of the royal blood. She grows impatient to hear news from Diyarbakir...

Hürrem Sultana had decided to give her dear daughter?s hand to the Governor of Diyarbakir Rustem Pasha. But there is terrible gossip poisoning the air: ?Rustem Pasha is a leper!?, say the evil tongues. The wise men are consulted and their verdict is clear: ?He cannot be a leper if there is even one louse on his person!? Physicians are sent to examine the Pasha. Their careful research comes to a joyful conclusion: ?Rustem Pasha is not a leper, because, the physicians have found a louse on his shirt!? It is the year 1539. ?Prosperity to Rustem Pasha and happiness to Mihrimah Sultana!?

In gratitude for her good fortune, Mihrimah gives an order to Sinan, the famous architect to construct two mosques, one on each continent, saluting each other from across the Bosphorus.

As the silver-lined clouds disperse, sunlight flashes and hides in quick succession. At the sunlight varies, the waters of the Bosphorus are bathed in different colours, now an ominous grey, then a joyful sapphire-blue. Bezmiâlem Valide looks out from the Pink Ballroom of Ciragan Palace, as the ripeness of the redbuds of Kandilli paints the hillside crimson. The sun now shines into the palace, awakening the glitter on the carved gilded frames of the priceless oil paintings.

This compassionate and sensitive first lady of the Palace is called "Bezmiâlem, which means ?the person who brings joy?. Beloved wife of Sultan Mahmud II, she devotes her time to the homeless, always extending a helping hand to those in need.

In the year 1845 she founds The Guraba Hospital. She leans over the mother-of-pearl desk-top and adds to the rules. "The ward for infectious diseases will be separated from the others... service to the poor will be given for free... no deductions will be made from the patients? allowance... even if they cost a fortune onions will be provided for the kitchen... 25,241 olive trees will be donated to the hospital ..."

She turns her green eyes further into the distance. The blue waves remind her of the rules of the charitable foundation she has started in Damascus: ? The sweet water of Damascus will be moved to Haremeyn with camels, to be served to the Pigrims."

The Bosphorus is uneasy. It flows red during the fire of sunset and turns grey, then silver as the moon skips from cloud to cloud. Pertevniyal Sultana is melancholy, standing tall on the red carpet. She is tall and voluptuous with creamy arms and well rounded hips, like Aphrodite, like Venus. Her chestnut-colored hair sways and catches the light, glimmering with flecks of gold, as she turns her head slowly to show a profile that seems sculpted from the finest marble.

The year is 1871. Pertevniyal, a beautiful and intelligent Causasian, is only sixteen, but she has already claimed the passion of Sultan Mahmud II, and has captured the attention and the devotion of the court. Now, she is impatient to see the completion of the mosque and its complex that she has commissioned for Aksaray.

The Sultana paid 7,538 gold coins just for the plot of the Mosque?s land and donated 1,055 unique works to its library. She hired the Italian architect Montani to collaborate with Turkish experts and build this elegant house of worship, combining elements of Turkish architecture with Gothic and Indian. There are facades of marble columns and arches with carved relief motifs and refreshing fountains in the front courtyard. A delicate and astonishingly beautiful creation that impresses to this day.

The mist is slowly lifting. Şevkefza Sultana sighs as the hills and the waterside homes begin to come into sharp focus and the sun breaks through to blaze in the sky. The waters of the Bosphorus playfully reflect the crystalline shards of sunlight. Sevkefza, the wife of Sultan Abdülmecid is overwhelmed by the spectacle of this majestic re-awakening. She is Caucasian descended from Abaz.

She is reminded her of her first day in the palace. She was a little girl then, with long black hair. The memory brought a smile to her lips. That was when they had given her the name Şevkefza, which means ?the person who brings cheer?.

It is August 7, 1867. The olive-eyed Sultana rejoices in Dolmabahce Palace. It has been an endless forty-five days since her son Prince Murat left for Europe. He has visited all the cities of the West on the occasion of the Great Exhibition of Paris. News has arrived that the Sultana?s yacht, on which the Prince is sailing, has left the port of Varna last night and is expected to arrive in Istanbul any moment. The people have gathered on the shore, chanting his name all night long.

Şevkefza Sultana lounges on her embroidered chair. She is at peace now and much happier. Her beloved son will be at her side soon.

Golden sprinklings of sunshine beam through the thin clouds of a pale sky. Dew that had collected on thin tree-branches trickles off like tiny raindrops. The lawn on both sides of the path to the palace glitters as the mist melts and the light fog lifts into the heavens. The emerald green of the grass and the warmth of the speckled sunlight is a joyful amalgam of approaching springtime.

Tîrimüjgân, is a Caucasian belle, famous across continents for her willowy slim-waisted figure, her honey-coloured eyes, her long auburn hair that falls gracefully on pearly white shoulders, her kindness, her gentle breeding. She is grace incarnate. Her every smile treasured. Her kindness legendary.

She is taking her usual walk in the Ciragan Palace gardens, a flower herself blending in with the purple violets, the primroses, the white carnations, the snow-white gardenias, the plentiful lilacs. She settles into her red-velvet armchair under the young magnolia tree. Her elegant fingers pluck the strings of the golden-wired tambour. Ismail Dede Efendi?s mournful lyrics flow forth from the Sultana?s ruby-rose lips like panacea to an aching soul: "A cursed Fate stabs at my heart, but loving you is my only sin ..."

Tîrimüjgân married Sultan Abdülmecid in 1839 to become queen of the Ottoman Court. She stayed madly in love with her husband to the end. She gave birth to Abdülhamid who succeeded his father to the throne.

The rain has finally stopped. Dark clouds are slowly sinking into the horizon behind the thick fog. A clearing has opened in the sky above the Palace.

It is the year 1703. The ample formal ballroom of Topkapi Palace has new decorations. Its walls are lined with antique ceramic tiles and its ceiling is covered with frescoes of dreamy landscapes. Unmistakable woman?s touches. It is a stunning room, but it languishes unused behind its thick blue-velvet curtains.

Şehsuvar Sultana is suffocating in this disquietingly peaceful environment. It overwhelms her. Her heart flutters like a trapped bird. She runs to the light in her pearl-embroidered slippers, which hurt her feet. She opens one of the windows wide and leans out. She fills her lungs with deep breaths of Black Sea air.

A few years back, she had attracted the Valide Sultana?s attention with her tall and shapely figure, her abundant auburn hair, her extraordinary beauty, her intelligence. The Ukrainian-born girl, only sixteen, was to become a concubine to the Sultan Mustafa II, and renamed Şehsuvar. Mustafa seduced her and made her love him, only to forget her when he tired of her. Her heart is broken, she is in despair.

Elbows trembling on the window sill, she screams: ?Oh, my Sultan! You are my hell and my heaven. I cannot fall asleep when I cannot dream of you. It is you who stirs the winds to blow and causes the roses to grow and fill the air with perfume.?

Her chest is heaving rapidly up and down. She can?t hear anything but the loud thumping of her heart.

Fourteen year-old Signorina Baffa, daughter of the Governor of Corfu, stands tall on a hill overlooking the sea, her wheat-coloured hair tousled by the wind her hazel eyes wistful. She is a rosebud. A pearl that is fit for a Sultan: she?s to travel to the harem this day. She?s anxious and afraid but secretly, despite herself, excited.

Her excitement lasted for three years of rigorous education. She proved talented and clear-minded and mastered all she was taught. She wanted to succeed, because she knew that one day she?d be queen.

At seventeen she was presented to the palace of young and handsome Prince Şehzade Murad, the favourite grandson of Süleyman the Magnificent. They renamed her ?Safiye? and dressed her in embroidered satin and pearls and brought her to a room that was inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli and the finest silk rugs, a room where dreams come true. She craved power and was eager for glory as the first lady of the Ottoman Empire. Bejeweled and alluring, she smiled at Murad and gazed with love into his fiery black eyes. She enchanted him and he fell in love. His first love, and a love that would endure and nourish both of them for the rest of their lives.

In the year 1597 Safiye Sultana, by now the queen of Emperor Murad III, laid the cornerstone of the famous Yeni Camii, a masterpiece of early Ottoman architecture.

A moonless night in the year 1389 on the foothills of Bursa?s Friar Mountains. The apricot-colored verandah juts out of a mansion that was carved in the rock like an eagle?s nest. A passionate sky, pregnant with a multitude of bright stars, lights the countryside softly in blue. There are intoxicating perfumes emanating from the stillness of the night as a nightingale sings.

Despina leans on the verandah?s wooden railing, propped on bare arms. She peruses the woods, her glances darting from one footpath to the other. As if she?s waiting for someone. Her jet black hair is scattered by the spring wind. The sleeve-less red-velvet caftan with the vividly embroidered carnations hugs her elegant body.

Despina Sultana, the violet-eyed daughter of Serbia?s King Lazar is only nineteen but she is madly in love with Sultan Beyazid, the fourth Ottoman Emperor, who is known as Yildirim (the Lightning). Her heart is filled with passion, but also with fear. She crosses herself and lays her palm across her chest praying to Jesus. Protect him, my Lord! Please keep him safe for me! With all her heart, with all her being, she wishes him to return home from the war?

In a few minutes her attendant rushes to her in tears of joy. ?Our munificent Sultan, your beloved husband Yildirim is returning victorious from the war!?

Terhan is the precious daughter of a Slav family. She is as extraordinarily beautiful as she is talented. She has grown up in the harem and educated in the fine arts. She writes tuneful poems which she sings like a lark. Sultan Ibrahim, the Lord of the Ottoman world, is worried. In his twenties and intimate with many wives and concubines, he has no heir apparent to ensure the dynasty. Worse than that, he has yet to find a woman whose love can sustain him.

One magical day he notices the delightful Terhan. The young Sultan loses himself in her eyes. It is love at first sight. They walk together along perfumed garden paths with dewy spring flowers that glitter in the warm sunlight like jewels. Terhan sings softly so that only he can hear her. Ibrahim is joyful. His heart is telling him that she is the one he has been looking for, but now the Sultan is fearful that he would have to lose her if she cannot give him a son.

One year has passed, and Istanbul rings with exultant news: Terhan Sultana has become a mother at the age of fifteen! The empire now has an heir, and his name is Mehmed. But soon enough the Royal household meets with tragedy. First Ibrahim dies and then his mother Kösem. Terhan, left alone with her young son, lives up to her promise. She rules the Ottoman Empire with great success until Mehmed comes of age.

Esma Sultana, Sultan Abdülmecid?s aunt, languishes in her magnificent palace. She is unhappy because she is childless. She decides to adopt Rahime, the one year old daughter of Halil Bey, a Circassian nobleman. The girl is as delicate as a bird. Esma nicknames her Perestû, (?Swallow?). She lavishes her little swallow with the finest education in the arts and shields her from the gossip of the harem.

The years pass. Rahime is now fourteen, still thin and willowy, as graceful as any bird in the sky. On a fine spring day, the Sultan catches sight of her as he walks in the garden. He quizzes everyone about the blue-eyed girl, but no one seems to know of her. He turns to his aunt. Esma realizes that he is talking about her daughter Rahime.

To help Abdülmejid forget her daughter, Esma assembles the most beautiful concubines of the Palace, but the Sultan is seriously smitten and cannot get Rahime out of his mind. Esma accepts the inevitable and orders the harem-master to find Rahime. ?Fetch Perestû and order her to bring a cup of coffee to my Lion!?

The blue-eyed girl enters the hall bearing coffee that she serves in diamond encrusted cups for the pleasure of the Sultan. Abdülmecid does not hesitate. He holds both of his aunt?s hands in his own and asks for her daughter?s hand in marriage.

A week later Rahime ?Perestû?, splendid in a pearl-embroidered red velvet gown, golden crown and veil, is driven to the palace in her mother?s silver-plated carriage. The year is 1844. The road on which the bridal procession passes is sprinkled with gold, as sherbet is being served to the guests who are waiting in Topkapı Palace.

Her name was Mahpeyker. She shone with an innocence and a beauty that stood out in the harem but she never wanted to remain a mere concubine. She dedicated herself to her lessons, and at fifteen she was deemed ready to meet the Emperor.

She conquered the heart of Sultan Ahmet on first sight. He fell in love and married her without further ado. The Sultan?s infatuation grew to undying love and she quickly became the most famous woman in the household.

The Sultan changed her name to ?Kösem? and heaped favours on her makiong her wealthy. Her grasp of politics impressed the Western Ambassadors in Istanbul. They called her ?Sultana Kösem? and deferred to her on matters of State. She was the talk of European Courts by the age of twenty, she had the world in her palm, but her happiness was not to last.

She was widowed at twenty-eight, but she overcame her grief for the sake of her son, the Crown Prince Murat, twelve at the time. She held onto power until he came of age, subduing a palace that was fraught with intrigue.

Kösem proved her mettle, she chose her allies well, she used her immense power compassionately, and has come down in history as one of the most influential Sultanas of the Ottoman Empire. She also attained property across the Bosphorus in Üsküdar, where she commissioned mosques and schools and fountains and blue-tiled baths to be built for the glory of her son, Sultan Murat.

The year is 1517. Midnight under a full moon that bathes Manisa Palace in siilver light. Hafsa Sultana kneels praying, a blue glow from the turquoise wall-tiles reflecting on her radiant face. She despairs of ever again seeing her beloved husband, the fearless Yavuz, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He is waging war in Ridaniye with no chance of returning alive. She has only one hope left for happiness: her son Süleyman.

The rose-faced Sultana, suffering for years her husband's wars, shouts in tears: "I am but a wretched slave, weak and unworthy of your beneficence, my Sultan. I am but the soil on which your steed rides you into glory. My only hope is that Allah will grant the grace Prince Süleyman needs to achieve the throne and finally bring peace and some sort of happiness to an unfortunate mother.?

When this came to pass and Süleyman was crowned Sultan, Hafsa Sultana settled into her dream of building monuments to her son. She commissioned mosques, madrasas and hospitals inside the walls of Manisa Palace, illuminated by the famous lighthouse that shines with a promise of hope to this day.

The sun is about to rise, but the fog and the cool mist diffuse the light. It is as dark as night. It is the year 1526 and Roksalena walks on the smooth Persian carpet in little steps to settle down on the lush brocade of the sofa. She bends over the mother-of-pearl writing table and picks up her quill. At that moment a beam of sunlight penetrates the mist and sparkles on the crystal ornaments of the chandelier.

She smiles and dips her quill into the ink-pot. She begins to write. ? Oh, my Sultan, you are inside my heart. You are the budding flower of my paradise. I would fly to you through the highest flames if you just but beckoned. I am your concubine for the rest of time, a helpless slave that belongs to you body and soul.?

This lovely girl, chosen from the Ukraine when she was sixteen, was trained for the pleasure of Crown-Prince Süleyman in the palace in Istanbul. She was so fair and worldly that they called her Hürrem Sultana. Her extensive palace-education, enhanced by her native wit, natural charm, and sensual beauty soon made her the favourite companion of the Prince who was destined to become Süleyman the Magnificent.

Sultana, not only beautiful but also intelligent and ambitious, is best remembered for her commissions to Sinan, the immortal architect. For Hürrem he constructed a pearl-like complex in Haseki and the ethereal Roksalena Hamaam in Sultan Ahmed.

The bedroom is enclosed by delicately-carved panels, its walls layered with exquisite tiles from Iznik that reflect the muted morning light like a turquoise dream. Floral motifs on the panels and on the gilded sideboards begin to shine brightly in the sunlight that now beams down from a skylight on the arched ceiling.

Süleyman's legendary paramour Nurbanu flutters her eyelids as she slowly stirs on her goose-down bed. The Venetian blonde with the lily-white face and the willowy figure hesitates to wake up completely lest she lose her extraordinary dream. She had been debating where she should commission the mosque to be built. And this night an answer of sorts has been revealed to her. A white-bearded wise man came in her sleep with a strange instruction: "Let the wind lift your veil from the pier at Besiktas, and build your temple wherever it lands." She repeats the words until she has memorized them. Her chest is heaving with excitement, her face lit-up with a smile of pure bliss.

The year is 1570. The emerald-eyed Nurbanu Sultana obeys the oracle in her dream and hurls her veil into the wind at Besiktas. After an extended flight it settles down at the top of Toptasi hill. She bids Sinan, the architect of all the ages, to adorn that hill with elegant domes and slender minarets.

Celebi Mehmed?s wife Emine Sultana lies on golden colored satin sheets, under silk blankets that are decorated with precious stones. Heavy red-velvet curtains, embroidered with gold and silver threads hang on the windows, sheltering the Sultana from the outside world. The warm air is redolent of the perfume of roses and carnations. The gazelle-eyed daughter of Dulkadiroğlu Mehmed has been installed in this handsome room after the birth of her son, the Crown-Prince Murat.

It is midnight in the spring of 1404. The candles have been snuffed out, but the lone great golden candlestick burns into the night. Two tired concubines are sleeping on pillows on the floor. The melodious sound of water sprinkling from the marble fountain in the courtyard wafts into the room.

Emine Sultana is too excited to sleep. Her hennaed hair flows freely down to her shoulders. She leans on her feather pillow. She allows herself to dream about her future glory. Occasionally she casts a shy glance at little Murat who is sleeping, wrapped in the yellow swaddling clothes of an infant. She is dreaming of the day that he will have ascended to the throne of the Ottoman Sultanate. She imagines the power that will be bestowed upon her because she is the mother of this innocent baby-boy. In this rosy dream, her heart flies far away to the magnificent palace in Bursa, the original capital of the Ottoman Empire.

Precious Persian carpets and thick velvet curtains adorn the Sultana?s private apartments. It is bright inside and gently warm from a thousand flickering candles on the chandeliers. Virginal, delightful Nigâr is riddled by great anxiety. Her hands are cold as ice, and her heart thumps ominously. The jewels and the precious metals of the room?s decorations give her no solace. The door opens slowly.

She gasps and falls to the ground prostrate. Sultan Bayezid, the Emperor of all the Ottomans, enters and towers over her. He is the son and successor of Mehmed II, the Conqueror of Constantinople. Nigâr peeks discreetly up towards him. His expression is serious, almost fearsome, as he looks her over. She is devastated, and doesn?t know what she should do. She touches the hem of the Sultan?s kaftan with her lily-white forehead, to mask her agitation, to appeal for his mercy.

She needn?t have worried so. The Sultan is enchanted. He is staring at her as if she were a fine painting, a perfect flower. He bends to her and holding her hands he helps her up. He seems lost in her youthful face. He murmurs: ?You are so beautiful! You are silk and you are golden. You are indeed Nigâr, my tenderly sculpted beloved.?

The year was 1483. The moon. is rising lazily towards the clouds up above. By the time it could hide behind them Nigâr Sultana would already be pregnant with Crown Prince Korkut and the Ottoman throne would be assured of its dynasty.

Devlet Sultana, beautiful as a ripe rose, wakes up suddenly from a nightmare in the most splendid bedroom of Bursa Palace. She shakes with fear. It?s a hot summer night. She walks to the window and throws open the velvet curtains. She raises her blue eyes to the sky. A myriad stars flicker on the dark firmament as if fixed with golden nails, with one very bright star that burns orange as if about to explode...

The year is 1389, and Sultan Bayezid is poised in front of the fortifications of Niğbolu city. The sky is pitch black. The Sultan, who is the only lover Devlet has ever known, mounts his horse in fury and rushes the castle singlehandedly. He is like a thunderbolt. He finds a breach in the battlements and stands tall on the ramparts.

A brave voice resounds from the ground. ?Bayezid, hey Bayezid!? The Sultan peers down and demands the speaker show himself. A rider slowly appears from the shadows, covered head to toe in long flowing robes. ?Persevere and be patient,? he says, ?Victory is within your grasp!? He turns and rides away into the forest...

A joyful smile crosses Devlet?s lips. She decides that it was not a nightmare but a clear vision with a positive omen. Her husband is safe and has won his war. She returns to her silk bed, but she cannot fall asleep. In her heart she is still afraid. To her great relief, the morning brings excellent news. Two white carrier-pigeons land in the palace garden with a message from the Sultan: he?s victorious and on his way back to her.

It is night-time at the end of May, in the year 1469. Ayşe Gülbahar Sultana wakes up in deep distress. She jumps out of bed and runs to the window. She quietly draws open the honey-colored curtains. She looks into the dark. The harem garden, bordered by tall cypresses, is silent and cold as a graveyard. Clouds are being driven by high winds. They seem to be marching across the sky like well-trained foot-soldiers. A total darkness descends as the moon and the stars hide behind the rushing clouds. Yeşilırmak shines like a silver necklace in the distance. It makes wild noises, that somehow rejuvenate her. She feels the cold wind on her face. She throws open her robes to refresh her naked body.

Suddenly her face brightens with an inner joy, something that she is barely able to contain or dare to believe. And yet she is convinced: she is pregnant. She, Ayşe, daughter of Alâüddevle Bey, descended from the Dulkadiroğlus, is pregnant with the son and heir of Ottoman Sultan Bayezid, the most powerful sovereign in the world. God has replied to her prayers. She lays down joyfully on the silk carpet that has been rolled out on the sofa. Her blue eyes well up with tears of happiness. Everyone in the city of Amasya is asleep. The night is tight-lipped. Ayşe Sultana must celebrate her precious secret alone. She remembers the wise words of Sultan Yavuz Selim: ?This world is too big for one sovereign, yet too small for two!?

An unbroken string of azure, cloudless skies have given life to a plethora of roses and carnations and colourful wildflowers, the combined perfumes of which intoxicate all who are near them. This miracle of springtime echoes the youthful innocence of Muazzez Sultana. She visits the garden every day at sunset accompanied by her odalisque. She walks delicately to the second elm tree where a gilded sofa with soft cushions awaits her under a silk-embroidered canopy. The hem of her velvet dress, embroidered with diamonds, sways with every step she takes, mirroring the undulating waters of the ever-breezy Bosphorus as they flow past the palace at Sarayburnu.

It is 1642. Not even a full year has passed since the tall Venetian beauty?s wedding to Sultan İbrahim whom she has learned to love passionately. She is the most beautiful of all the favored women of the harem, and its newest arrival. She takes the bejeweled tambour from the hennaed hands of her odalisque, and plucks it passionately, singing:

?Do not tell your secret to unworthy people. Don?t share your joyful yearning with the courtiers, lest it become gossip, a target for their scorn. Oh, my master, my Sultan, my beloved Ibrahim! When you are by my side all the happiness of the world is mine.?

The heartfelt verses pour from the rose colored lips of Muazzez Sultana and melt into the melancholic sound of the tambour to become one with the aromatic garden air that wafts high into the sky where angels dance.

Kâğıthane had been royal hunting grounds since the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent. In 1724 Sultan Ahmed III opens this fairy-tale setting to the citizens of Istanbul for their diversion and enjoyment. Citizens from all corners of the city gather on the emerald lawn and in the meadows of tulips that are bordered by the crystal-clear waters of a creek. Many tents have been set up in every corner of the huge garden. Oil lamps and candlelight illuminate the star-bright nights as fireworks flash across the sky like comets. The sweet melodies of strings and percussion are carried by the gentle breeze, inviting all to wonder if they have indeed arrived in paradise.

Thirty marble columns prop Sâdâbat, the elegant summer house of the harem on the shore of a brook. The aquamarine pond shimmers as a dragon-shaped fountain spouts water from the elm-tree garden to delight Râbia Sultana.

It is after sunset. Râbia reclines under the magnolia trees. Her hair is golden, her eyes sapphire-blue, the skin of her attractive face rosy-white, her body supple and vital. Her full lips break into a seductive smile. Râbia Şermi Sultana, of Circassian origin and only seventeen, has been the Sultan?s favorite for three years. Two tall odalisques try to refresh her with the cooling breeze of rounded fans on long handles.

The heat wave of midsummer 1641 was more intense than any in memory. For weeks on end sunshine cascaded down from the sky in waves of angry flames turning Istanbul into a scorching furnace. The citizens, desperate for a cooling breeze, find shelter in the shade of ancient plane trees that have spread their leafy branches over entire squares. They listen to the music of tambours and reed-flutes being played in the harem. The melody is the lilting and sensual ?Mahur?, a prelude composed by Gazi Giray Han. It excites souls and arouses appetites despite the stifling heat.

Dilâşub Sultana is of Crimean origin. She has crossed her legs and tugged them under the hem of her white, large-sleeved chemise. She holds one of her hands on her knee in a royal gesture. She has unbuttoned her florally printed dress down to her cleavage. The diamonds on her purple crest reflect the sun?s rays. Her odalisque offers scant comfort with an ornate fan. Dilâşub?s emerald-green eyes glance again at the letter. She has read its message countless times already, but it still fills her with joy. It is from her husband, Sultan Ibrahim, the sovereign of all the Ottomans.

?My beautiful Dilâşub! I am your slave. My love has no bounds. I surrender my body and soul and heart to you. I am at your mercy. My prayer is that you come to me tonight. To love me and be mine.? Dilâşub shuts her eyes and kisses the letter.

It is the year 1258. Springtime in Domaniç is as beautiful as heaven. Its vast meadows, like spacious palace ballrooms in green, are surrounded by tall plane trees and even taller hornbeams. The nomads have set up their tents near the creek. Hayme Sultana sits under the huge oak tree. The young grandmother rocks the tiny cradle that hangs from a tree-branch. Her grandson Osman Gazi lies awake and whimpers, so vulnerable in this gigantic setting. She hums a lullaby. ?Do not lament, my baby boy, do not have any fears...? The sweet song seems to please all who hear it. It is like a good omen, like a blessing from God.

Hayme Sultana is the mother of Ertuğrul Gazi, the valiant victor of the Mongols. Her body is still slim and full of health. Her skin shines with a thirst for life and a generous spirit. The gentle breeze tousles her blond hair making it seem darker.

Hayme, the grandmother of Ottoman Sultans, lovingly gazes at little Osman who is destined to become the founding father of a noble dynasty. His descendants will rule the known world even though he hails from a people who started their nation in four hundred tents. The Sultana?s green eyes piercingly gaze far into the distant horizon.

The sky is overcast with black, ominous clouds. There is a heavy rain that veils the view. The Bosphorus, so glorious in sunshine, now appears gloomy and murky. Raindrops stream from the harem?s domed roof and flow down arched windows to form puddles on the flagstones of the yard by the entrance to the odalisques? quarters.

Helene Sultana is lost in a reverie of summertime when she would throw gold coins into the marble pond and watch the dwarves jump in fully-clothed to find them. The Circassian odalisque knocks on the door drawing her away from her pleasant daydream. Sultan Mehmed II, who has put an end to one era and started another by conquering Byzantium, is on his way to be by her side. Her heart beats excitedly.

The daughter of Mora?s Archbishop Demetrius, Helene is lovely and merry. She has a golden belt on her waist, and in her hair, a feathered crest that is ornamented with precious jewels. It is the year 1474. The Conqueror?s most cherished task upon his return from the war is to come and see his baby-son Ahmed. He raises him high in his strong arms and kisses him with limitless love. Helene?s face brightens with joy. She bows to her Sultan and caresses the infant. She crosses herself with her hands on her chest. She smiles with tenderness, as she speaks, ?You are the light of my life, the star of my heavens. I pray every day that you have a long and happy life?.

It is July of 1444. Sultan Murad Khan, signs a treaty with the Hungarians. The Senate of Venice, aiming to drive the Ottomans out of Rumelia, persuades the Hungarian King to renege. All of Europe is united in opposing the Ottoman Empire. Murad sets out for war, which lasts many months on Balkan soil. Finally victorious, the Sultan heads home. His exultant news is announced with cannonades from the top of Keşiş Mountain. Bursa, the capital city, resounds with joy. Velvet banners are hung down from the palace?s walls, to welcome the return of their glorious Sultan.

Murad, salutes his people but does not linger. He is anxious to see his beloved wife, Hüma Sultana. She is breezily dressed in her unbuttoned long dress which is embroidered with golden thread in a design of clouds on a pale-rose sky. Tears well up in the bright green eyes of this mother of the future conqueror of Istanbul. Then, she smiles sensually and embraces her husband with her naked arms. She caresses Sultan Murad?s tanned face with her own velvet-smooth cheeks, her pink welcoming lips. She is all tenderness and love. She murmurs: ?The star of my happiness! Put your hand on my heart and feel how fast it beats.?

Hüma, who founded ?Hatuniye School? at her own expense, now rests in peace in her mausoleum which was constructed by her husband.

Raindrops, as big as diamonds, are falling on the leaves of centuries-old plane trees. Pearl-like droplets glitter on the diminutive flowers of the lilacs. The sky seems determined to shed all its tears at once. The heavy rain forces Hatice Mahfiruz Sultana to take shelter under the glazed tiles of Çinili Kiosk. The carefully landscaped garden has turned into a large puddle. When the rain is finally spent, sunlight peeks through the clouds. Its warmth and bright light is like a tender caress on the soaking lawn.

Circassian beauty Hatice takes dance-like steps to the window on precious Persian carpets. She throws open the crimson curtains. She is particularly seductive today in her emerald-green veil. The curves of her shapely body blend flowingly into each other as if painted by an Italian master. Her clear skin is the essence of springtime. A rainbow has arched its colorful arrows across the hillside. It excites the Sultana. She softly sings a love poem for the sovereign of her heart, Sultan Ahmed I:

?My Sultan, my husband, you?re the light in my eyes! I wait out the day impatient for the night, so that I can see you in my dreams.
My only beloved, my sweet master! I want you, I need you, I miss you. You?re the only one I?ve ever loved, you?re the only one I could ever love.?

Hatice Sultana turns away from the window and resumes her slumbers on the soft sofa. It?s many hours yet until nighttime when the Sultan might come to her...

A scorching sun is beaming down on the palace. It seems as if the lawn would catch fire if it weren?t for the shade of the ancient plane trees. The branches of the lilacs and the laburnums, loaded with mauve and yellow florets respectively, are tangled together on the iron railings. The rose bushes planted next to the bannisters of the garden steps are ripe with hundreds of roses. When the air cools somewhat in the evening, the perfume of these roses intensifies and wafts across the garden.

It is the year 1484. The almond-shaped eyes of Gülbahar Sultana, widow of Sultan Mehmed Khan, the Conqueror of Istanbul, are wet with tears. She sits in the shade in a corner of her garden as she rereads the letter she has written to her son Sultan Bayezid who is preparing for war against Bogdan Voivod:

?My hero, my son, the light of my eyes. I miss you terribly. I haven?t seen your sweet face for more than forty days. You?ll be gone to war soon and I must hug you. My Sultan, forgive the unease of a worried mother, but you are my everything!?

Gülbahar Sultana financed many benevolent institutions in Edirne and Tokat out of her own pocket. Noteworthy is one of the conditions she imposed on the shelter for the poor that she founded in Tokat: ?Students, poor people and their guests will be served breakfast and dinner free of charge. The feed of their animals will also be supplied.? Gülbahar rests in peace in her mausoleum located near Fatih Mosque.

It?s the afternoon of April 7, 1789. White-bright sunlight reflects off the waters of the Golden Horn painting them silver. The roses of the big rose bush, wilted from the heat, look as if they?re asleep. Sultan Mustapha III?s widow Mihrişah Sultana is lying down on the velvet sofa in the shade of an ornate canopy to while away the hours of this remarkable day. The blond odalisque is tirelessly fanning the Sultana with a peacock-feather fan. Tree branches, dressed in the early buds of spring, veil the pure blue of the cloudless sky like elegant lace.

Suddenly a repeatedly explosive cannonade shakes the entire city of Istanbul. The shots are heralding the accession of her son Sultan Selim III to the throne of the Ottoman Empire. A eunuch comes running excitedly and says: ?My most worthy mistress, you are now a Valide Sultana. The Mother of the Sultan!? Mihrişah lets out a sigh. Her most fervent wish has finally come true after fifteen long years of waiting.

The Sultana, who is still strikingly beautiful at forty five, is returning to Topkapi Palace with the traditional retinue of a ?Valide?. Her gilded coach, drawn by six white horses is saluted by the janissaries on Divanyolu as gold coins are distributed to the poor. Inside the Gate of Happiness, the new monarch greets his mother by bending to the ground three times and then kisses her hand.

Mihrişah Sultana founded many public buildings in Eyüp at her own expense, including an alms house, a school, a library, a fountain and a mausoleum, all bearing her name. She also built many fountains wherever in Istanbul they were needed.

Black clouds are being driven across the firmament by stormy winds. Stinging raindrops rattle the palace windows. The walls of Valide Mehpare Sultana?s apartment are inlaid with florally designed tiles. Thick yellow velvet curtains hang on the windows. Mehpare, now in her forties, is as beautiful as a rose in full bloom. She draws the curtains and gazes out towards Topkapi Palace with teary eyes.

She closes her eyes and remembers her first days in the harem, where they renamed her Mehpare, meaning ?a slice of the moon?. Not long afterwards she married Sultan Mehmed IV and set out with him to tour the Balkan cities that were part of their empire. They visited Thessalia and lodged in Dimetoka Palace along with their one-year old son Mustapha.

She lived many years with all the honors befitting a queen and mother of the crown-prince, until in 1687 when her destiny changed catastrophically. Her husband was violently dethroned and imprisoned in Topkapi Palace and she became powerless.

The Sultana sighs with unbearable sadness, and rereads for the thousandth time her husband?s last and only letter: ?Oh, my rose, my Mehpare, who must now wear black for her king and husband. I am alive but would be better off dead. I feel your deep sorrow as I cry in a corner of my cell. I am no longer Sultan Mehmed, I am now a pitiable beggar, in the dark without you, my love, the bright moon of my cold nights.?

Mehpare Sultana dedicated herself to public works. She founded many institutions for the betterment of her people. Her memory is cherished to this day.

It?s dusk and the first stars have appeared on the pale sky. A grey fog is blowing in from the east and descends on Bursa like a fine rain of ash. Olga Sultana paces the length of the vast hall like a tiger. She is glorious in a tight red dress that echoes the carnation designs on the ceramic tiles of the walls. Youthful and comely, her vitality is boundless. The pearls on her graceful neck sparkle as they reflect the flickers of light from the golden chandeliers. She is impatient for the homecoming of her Sultan.

Olga is the daughter of a Bulgarian nobleman. She is only seventeen, but she has been wedded to Sultan Bayezid, known as Thunderbolt, for more than a year. They are devotedly in love with each other, but Bayezid, has been waging war for many months. He hurries to his beloved Olga upon his return to Bursa. She is overcome with emotion. She murmurs in her charming accent: ?My Sultan, my husband, being far from you was unbearable! My Lord, I have no life when you?re not by my side. My love for you is like an illness that only you can cure.?

Bayezid embraces her with urgency. He too has been ill with longing for his Olga. ?You are the light of my eyes and the flower of my life! I have suffered through this overlong sunset to be with you in the moonlight. A raging fire has been scorching my heart, a flame so mighty that not all the rivers of this world could put it out!?

The fog has encircled the palace and made it invisible. The lovers are all alone with each other under a full moon they cannot see. Finally their night can begin?

It is the summer of 1604. The scorching sun is overhead and beating down on the royal city. Istanbul slumbers in suspended animation. The Imperial caïque with its five double masts sails from Üsküdar and approaches the palace docks at Sarayburnu.

Aboard is Aziz Mahmud Hüdâyî, the most respected mystic and philosopher of his age, and a particular favorite of young and studious Sultan Ahmed. The Sultan has summoned him to the palace to perform an ablution for the Empire. A golden water sprinkler and a silver washbowl have been prepared. The Sultan, respectful of his wise guest, reaches for the sprinkler and pours water on the aged man?s hands.

The still youthful Handan Sultana, the Sultan?s mother, stands behind a screen that is embroidered with jade and turquoise. The Circassian beauty with the almond shaped eyes and the milky complexion bears a royal crest delicately inlaid with priceless diamonds. She hands the ceremonial towel to Aziz Mahmud Hüdâyî, saying: ?My greatest desire is to witness one of your miracles, oh great master.?

He smiles at Handan shyly. He speaks with humility: ?Your majesty, you honor me far beyond my worth! How could I possibly improve on this miracle? The Sultan of all the Ottomans pours water on my hands and the Valide Sultana prepares my towel.? Handan Sultana smiles bashfully, exchanging tender glances with her son the Sultan.

Aziz Mahmud Hüdâyî rests in peace on a lovely hill in Üsküdar contemplating the ever regenerating waters of the Bosphorus from the great beyond. All of mankind is enlightened by the eternal embrace of his limitless compassion.

It is the summer of 1305. Just after noon, the hottest time of day. Söğüt Creek flows lazily as it skirts willows and tall poplars and thick, shoulder-high grass. The soft breeze caresses Nilüfer Sultana?s long and wavy blond hair as she sits on the edge of the pond. Pregnancy has given the young woman a luminous air. Her purple eyes glow brightly, but she is somewhat apprehensive. She fervently wishes to give birth to a boy who will be the heir to the Sultanate. Her prayers for a baby boy take her mind to her husband Sultan Orhan with whom she is endlessly in love.

It was in Yarhisar, a Byzantine castle on the borders of Ottoman-held lands. She was called Holofera then, the beautiful daughter of Governor Mikhail. She met Orhan by chance during a festival and their mutual love was born. Orhan discussed the situation with his father Osman Bey. Osman asked her father for her hand, but he was refused because Holofera was engaged to be married the next day to someone else. Osman Bey told his son: ?That?s all I can do, the rest is up to you.?

Sultan Orhan gathers his forces and attacks the wedding ceremony. He abducts the girl he loves and marries her himself. The wedding takes place on the banks of Söğüt creek during a wondrous ceremony. Holofera converts to Islam by her own wish. They change her name to Nilüfer.

The Sultana murmurs longingly, almost as a sigh, a song, a call to her husband: ?I love you Orhan, I cannot live without you.?

It is April 1839. The gentle sun of early spring weaves a lacy green mantle on the lawn of Çırağan Palace. The leafy branches of the honeysuckle vine are climbing on the iron trellis as the intoxicating perfume of its delicate flowers is carried by the breeze to enchant Gülcemal Sultana. Crimson geraniums and yellow bleeding hearts decorate the fringes of the garden.

Gülcemal, in her gold-embroidered dress, red-satin baggy trousers and pearly scarf is awed by the soul-stirring sight of the purple-flowered Judas trees. She is the most precious flower of this garden, lush brown hair framing her comely face accenting the brightness of her dark eyes. Of Caucasian birth, her skin is white and smooth, her face is like a rose, which is why they named her Gülcemal (?rose-face?).

This tall and graceful woman is married to the handsome Ottoman Sultan Abdülmecid. She bends down to pluck the most perfect violet of the garden. She has been melancholy for many days. Her sadness is overwhelming. She has not been with her husband for the longest time. She desperately wishes to be with him and assure him that she loves only him. She murmurs to herself: ?How can I share my feelings with you, my Sultan, if I never see you...? Then she shrugs off her anxiety with a smile. She is convinced that there is a happy ending to every twist of fate. Soon he will come to her. Soon her longing will be over and she will lie with him on silk sheets once again.

The Golden Horn flows murky and pale like an old silver ingot. A grey veil covers Istanbul obscuring the clear sky. Sultan Mustafa?s mother Gülnuş Valide Sultana is passing through Azapkapı. Her eye is drawn to a beautiful little girl with waist-long black hair and shiny black eyes who is drawing water into a clay jug from a fountain. The Sultana?s attention distracts the girl, who drops her filled jug to the ground. It shatters into a million pieces. Saliha, the young girl, breaks out in tears.

Gentle Gülnuş steps out of the silver-plated coach, holding the skirts of her gold-embroidered dress. She hugs Saliha, consoling her with soothing words: ?Don?t be sad my sweet darling. I will replace your jug with a much more beautiful one.? To which Saliha replies with a surprising answer: ?My Lady, I am not crying for the broken jug. I am angry with myself because I failed this simplest of chores. If I can?t even fetch water from the fountain, what good am I?!? Gülnuş Sultana, astonished by the depth of little Saliha?s emotions, takes her to the palace and educates her with much care.

In the year 1695 Mustapha II, Gülnuş Valide Sultana?s son, accedes to the throne of the Ottoman Empire. Meanwhile, her protégé Saliha has grown into an astoundingly beautiful woman. The Sultana introduces her to the new Sultan, and Topkapi Palace witnesses a mythical wedding.

Saliha Sultana?s fate, which began in front of a fountain, continues to dwell on fountains. The magnificent plaza and ornate fountain which the Sultana commissioned for Azapkapı are regarded as masterpieces of Ottoman era Turkish architecture.

A fiery sunset has painted Istanbul crimson. The Galata Tower, Kâğıthane, the New Mosque, Kiliç Ali?s dome, the bridges across the Golden Horn, all seem to be crowned in flames. Sineperver Sultana?s bosom is also afire. The young woman pines for the sole object of her desire, her husband Sultan Abdülhamid Khan. This night she has chosen the blue silk dress with the silver-embroidered crescent-moons that her Sultan loves the best. Her svelte body is as thin as it was before she gave birth to her son Ahmed. Her satin-smooth skin shimmers seductively under the sheer fabric. There is nobility in the gaze of her enchanting eyes.

The Sultana?s rosy lips murmur with longing: ?You are the essence of my life! Every time you kiss me, it is like my very first kiss. Oh, my husband, you are the light of my eyes, the joy of my heart! I am lost and desperate without you...?

In 1780 Sineperver Sultana builds an elegant marble fountain in Üsküdar at her own expense from the proceeds of her farmlands. She dedicates it to her son Ahmed who died at an early age. Both mother and son will be remembered forever with this fountain, as fine an example of outstanding Baroque architecture as any in the world.

Selçuk Sultana is Çelebi Sultan Mehmed?s daughter. It is autumn and the yellow leaves of chestnut trees are falling to the ground one by one. Selçuk, in a silk-lined fur cape, is still beautiful despite the fine wrinkles on her lilly-white neck and the dark circles around her black eyes. She looks out from the palace; recalling the old days...

It is 1421 and Selçuk is only fourteen. She weeps, hidden in a corner. Her father has died. Her oldest brother Sultan Murad, has given her hand to Ibrahim Bey, the wedding to take place in four years. When this has occured, the seductive girl, now a queen, lives in Kastamonu Palace. Her happy marriage lasts eighteen years and ends when Ibrahim dies. She retreats to the ancient palace in Bursa with her children.

Seagulls bravely frolic close to the windows of the harem, as Selçuk remembers the magnificent wedding of her nephew Sultan Mehmed II, the Conqueror of Istanbul. Mehmed sudden death leads to the disastrous infighting between his sons for the right to accede to the throne. Selçuk, the most respected elder of the court, serves as mediator to the brothers, the first woman in the Ottoman Empire to be entrusted with such a position. Finally, destiny chooses Bayezid, who is crowned Emperor.

Selçuk Sultana, who lived to be seventy-eight years old, constructed three elegant mosques, one in each of the three capitals of the Ottoman Empire: Bursa, Edirne and Istanbul, at her own expense. She now rests in peace next to her Sultan father in Bursa?s Yeşil Türbe (Green Mausoleum).

It is a cool May morning of the year 1870 in Findikli Palace. The golden rays of the rising sun are dissolving the fine fog that had engulfed the Bosphorus and obscured Istanbul?s splendid skyline. Inside the palace, the bright sunlight bounces off the golden ornaments like gleaming diamonds. Sultan Mahmud II?s hazel-blue eyed daughter, the middle-aged Âdile Sultana is mastering a Hicaz Hümâyun song that she loves. A sorrowful rustling of leaves distracts the Sultana...

She was only four when her mother died. Nine years after that, her father, the Sultan, followed his wife. Meanwhile, the young princess was being educated in literature, lettering and music, and in 1845 she married Mehmet Ali Pasha. Their wedding lasted seven days and was celebrated by all the citizens of the capital. Several years of happiness at Neşetâbat Palace ended suddenly when her older brother Abdülmecid passed away, then her beloved husband and soon her daughter Hayriye. The all-suffering Âdile is the only Ottoman royal to have published a volume of her poems. She was also an accomplished composer and a master calligrapher. She arranged for the publication of ?Muhibbî?, the poems of Suleyman the Magnificent and established many charities. She granted trousseaus to poor brides, provided housing to the homeless, and finances waterworks for fountains that had gone dry...

Âdile Sultana?s teary eyes slowly return to the notes of Hicaz Hümâyun.

It is another phantasmagoric Istanbul sunset. It colours the sky in all shades of orange and red, while the waters of the Bosphorus turn purple. The sun shoots a final salvo of flames and then sinks into the wet horizon like spent silver. The villages along the shore seem ghostly in the twilight. Fatma Sultana, overawed by the fiery spectacle and its aftermath, feels as if she too has melted into the sky.

Fatma, a Caucasian by birth, is best remembered for her love of roses. A lot like a rose herself, with her blushed cheeks and full red lips, she was nicknamed Gülistû (rose-garden). She is wearing a lilac-coloured velvet caftan decorated with roses embroidered in golden yarn. It is of the finest quality as befits her station in life.

The sunset colours have given way to darkness. She approaches the window and admires the new moon, a silver crescent that winks from above. She longs for her beloved husband Abdülmecid Khan. She smiles bitterly: ?Love is magic. It?s cannot be controlled. No one falls in love willingly.? Fatma?s devotion to her husband is endless. She feels enchanted by the alchemy of this love but she cannot understand it.

Fatma Gülistû Sultana, whose son Vahidettin became the last of a long line of Ottoman Sultans, passed away with love still in her heart in the month of May, 1861, when she was only thirty-one and Istanbul was awash in roses.

At fifteen, Esma Sultana is Sultan Abdülhamid I?s youngest daughter. She is engaged to be married to Küçük Hüseyin Paşa. The blond, blue-eyed girl is so fetching and delicate, she seems straight out of a fairy tale. She shyly walks to the corner of the room where her wedding gown hangs. She strokes it lovingly, as if it?s an object of worship. Made of pink silk, the gown is in two pieces. Uniting the two parts is an elaborate embroidery of a flowering plant, with its roots on the hem of the skirt and its thin, long branches flowering around the bodice. It is a feast for the eyes with its spangles and crystal beads and silver thread, square furbelowed collar and puffy sleeves that are gathered at the elbow and vented to the wrists with golden buttons.

In the spring of 1792 the magical day finally arrives. The magnificent wedding begins with a cannonade from Topkapı Palace. All the citizens are invited to the ceremony. Acrobats and tumblers perform in the public squares. Games and spectacles have been organized in all corners of Istanbul. Fireworks from Tophane streak across the night-sky. Colored lanterns illuminate the palaces, mansions and houses of both shores of the Bosphorus, as beautiful Esma Sultana is married to her beloved.

Esma was the most powerful sister of Sultan Mahmud II. She had a palace in Divanyolu, manor houses in Çamlıca, Maçka and Eyüp, a mansion in Ortaköy. She was a poet and an accomplished musical composer.

Nakşidil Sultana is of Caucasian birth. She is tall with an hour-glass figure. Her beauty is a paradigm of all the sultanas before her. She loves the magnificent gardens of Çırağan Palace, which refresh her soul with tranquility and the deep perfumes of roses, carnations and hyacinths. She gages her visits to the gardens, waiting for the right time of day, anticipating the pleasure, refusing to rush it.

The perfect harmony of this emerald-green refuge never ceases to bewitch her. She tip-toes on the grassy paths which are cleared every morning by the gardeners, her soft feet shod in silver-strapped, diamond-ornamented sandals gliding as if on a silk carpet. She arrives at her favorite magnolia tree. Two white doves flutter among the flowers causing an aromatic breeze to caress her fair face.

It is the year 1785 and the Sultana, who is just twenty two, is very happy. Her much-loved husband Sultan Abdülhamid I continues to favour her as his most beloved wife, while her three-month old son Mahmud is healthy and daily growing bouncier, a true crown-prince for the imperial Ottoman throne.

Nakşidil Sultana constructed a complex of public buildings in Fatih at her own expense. Named after her, it includes a school for young children, a madrasa, a fountain and a mausoleum. The marble façade of the fountain is a masterpiece of elegance and a true example of Ottoman architecture, albeit in a small scale.

Istanbul is in the midst of tulip madness: April, 1728. The tulip, emblem of the Ottoman Empire, has lent its name and comely shape to an entire Age. Every spring, tulips in every colour of the rainbow are in season and are grown religiously all over the capital. The Tulip Age is celebrated in Topkapi Palace where an entire hall is dedicated to it. Tulips, painted on its walls, are reflected in mirrors giving an illusion of endless tulip gardens as seen from a distance.

Sultan Ahmed III?s beautiful daughter Zeynep is only fifteen. She is stretched out on the blue satin sofa, framed by abundant bouquets of tulips. She is to be married this day to Mustafa Pasha. She murmurs a little prayer, her rosy lips quivering. She is anxious to become his beloved and hear him whisper ?my white dove? as he kisses her.

Mihrişah Valide Sultana, Zeynep?s mother, walks into the room in a swish of velvet and pearls, accompanied by several odalisques. They dress the bride-to-be in her white-silk, rose-embroidered wedding gown which embraces her youthful body, clinging seductively to her budding womanhood. A cone-shaped tiara is placed on her chestnut hair and a veil is attached to it with a diamond brooch. They adorn her with many golden necklaces and tulip-shaped earrings. Zeynep Sultana and Mustapha Pasha?s wedding was a grand and lavish affair that led to a long and happy marriage.

The Sultana financed the building of many fountains in various corners of the capital and an elegant mosque in Sirkeci Soğuk Çeşme which she named after herself.

They called her Şirin, which means sweetly-charming, because this Circassian, rose-faced beauty was as gentle and kind as she was talented and courtly. She was a great fan of poetry, particularly the flowing rhymes of Mevlânâ Celâleddin Rumi and the Iranian poet Sadi, which she studied every morning kneeling in front of her reading desk, committing the timeless verses to memory. In 1482 she married Sultan Bayezid with a mutual love that was meant to last forever.

One year later, in a soft spring night of 1483, Istanbul slumbers under a bright full moon. Şirin Sultana cannot sleep. She walks through the rose and violet perfumed garden-paths with her favorite odalisque in tow. She leans on a marble column. Her gaze wonders across the Bosphorus to the blinking lights of Üsküdar that shine among the centuries-old, tall and leafy plane trees. Her pomegranate-red dress reflects an anxiety in her soul that cannot be diminished by the golden satin jacket, nor the priceless emerald of her ring, nor any of all the other extravagant frills due her station in the palace as the Emperor?s wife.

She is perturbed and confused. Her palms are wet, her ears are buzzing, her eyes begin to tear. She is ashamed to admit it, but she is jealous of her Sultan husband. She falls to her knees, dragging the odalisque with her. ?Pray with me,? she mutters, ?so Bayezid can hear us and be mine, only mine...?

Sultania dances elegantly, her gold-embroidered long dress swaying with every step. The sunlight poking through the trellis enlivens her face, gladdening the heart ever more with its long lashes and sculpted features. All eyes are upon her, everyone is in love. She is like springtime, her supple body like a breeze, her smooth skin like honeysuckle, her hair glitters like a treasure-chest full of jewels...

She gives life to this house. She makes time stop with a single gesture. She arouses happy dreams in thousands from a simple smile.

I wish everyone could see her. Anyone tasting this heady potion is enchanted. Springs turn into summer; winters into spring. Delights never cease in her garden of love. Sultania... Sultania... She is an arrow through the heart. Unrequited longing. Even bitter grief and painful sighs. Endless love is like that, as it rises every day in the soul like the sun and reveals a secret world redolent with joy. She is like the rarest of wines, a taste and an aroma so magnificent that life without it becomes impossible to bear...

Sultania dances elegantly, her perfumes, her brightness, the glitters in her hair burning in my heart like uncontrollable desire.