The Wanderer

by Mika Waltari

  “Deeply though I deplore the needless trouble he puts himself to,” he began, “and his restless wandering from place to place, yet because of the beauty of Mustafa ben-Nakir’s eyes and his bewitching manner of reading poetry aloud I find myself compelled to listen to him. But now, no doubt because of his unpleasant experiences of Portuguese pirates in India, he has taken it into his head that the honor of Islam requires the liberation of the princes of Diu and Calicut from the Portuguese yoke. In the course of his long journeys he has formed useful friendships to this end, and has heard from reliable sources that these two unhappy princes would gladly welcome the Sultan’s sea janissaries as liberators.”

  Mustafa ben-Nakir regarded me with his clear, innocent eyes and said, “Those brigands have stopped the Mussulman spice trade and carried away the cargos in their own ships round Africa to Europe. They oppress the inhabitants of Diu and rob the Arabian merchants-indeed, they rob even their own king by sending inferior spices to Lisbon and keeping the pepper to sell to Moslem smugglers at usurers’ prices. The Portuguese have instituted a reign of terror in India that is a disgrace to all Islam-to say nothing of the loss of trade, both to the Sultan’s dominions and to our true friends the Venetians. The unhappy Indians yearn for the coming of the Deliverer.”

  “Allah is Allah!” I said. “Let me hear no more of deliverers, Mustafa ben-Nakir; I am older and wiser than I was in Algeria, and the word leaves a taste of blood behind it. Speak out and tell me what you want and what I am to gain by it, and for the sake of our friendship I will give you what help I may.”

  Suleiman the eunuch sighed heavily and glanced at Mustafa ben- Nakir, saying, “What times we live in! You youngsters have no notion of the pleasure to be found in leisurely bargaining, and you stifle the art of conversation for which so admirable an opportunity has now arisen. What fever has overtaken the world? Whither are you hurrying? To the grave? But you may give my purse to your greedy friend, Mustafa ben-Nakir, if you can come at it beneath my cushions.”

  Mustafa ben-Nakir felt beneath the heavily flattened cushions and brought out a handsome purse whose weight at once convinced me of Suleiman’s sincerity. With hands folded over his vast belly he sat sighing with contentment, while a lovely girl scratched the sole of his right foot. He closed his eyes, curled his toes voluptuously, and said, “Though all is vanity and a chasing after shadows, yet despite my age I have been entranced by the flowery lyrics of Mustafa ben-Nakir’s speech and inspired to accomplish heroic deeds. Being an old sailor I’m also assailed by a senile jealousy of the much-praised Khaireddin, who is and ever will be a pirate. For a man of my girth a large ship is the safest and most comfortable means of transport, and I know nothing more agreeable than sitting beneath an awning on the poop deck, gently rocked by the sea breezes. My digestion functions incomparably better at sea than on land, and that for a man of my age and proportions is of supreme importance. During storms or when roundshot sing over the vessel my bowels display an incredible activity. Regularity is the foundation of health, young men, and for that reason alone I should like to build a Red Sea fleet and so spend as much time as I may on the water. I should have no objection if Ottoman historians were to record that Suleiman-pasha the eunuch conquered India for his stomach’s sake. There is nothing to laugh at, Michael el-Hakim. Disorders of the stomach have influenced world history before now and will do so again. Nothing is too petty or too insignificant for Allah to make use of in weaving his great carpet.”

  I could not forbear smiling at the singular pretext he had chosen, but Mustafa ben-Nakir looked at me with the utmost gravity and said, “You’re a man of perception, Michael el-Hakim, yet even reasoned conclusions may lead one astray. My friend Suleiman, unlike most men, is under no necessity of lying. Were it gold he coveted, he would find more than enough of it in Egypt. As for military glory, he rates it about as highly as the bodily function of which he has so eloquently spoken. But I read in your eyes that you don’t believe him, from which we must regretfully infer that no one in the Seraglio will believe him either-perhaps not the Grand Vizier himself.”

  Suleiman the eunuch wheezily interposed, “That is why we need your advice, Michael el-Hakim. And besides this, the sea pashas approve no fleets but their own. The money, vessels, and materials secretly offered me by the Signoria only increase the delicacy of the matter. In short, I cannot submit my plans to any but the Grand Vizier himself. You must convince him that there is nothing wrong in what I ask. Let him then persuade the Sultan to remit, say, a third of the annual tribute from Egypt for the next three years. With that sum I can build the Red Sea fleet. Warships are the most expensive toys ever invented, and I should be loath to impose extra taxes on Egypt. At the same time it would be beneath the Sultan’s dignity to allow his fleet to be paid for entirely by foreign powers.”

  Twist and turn the matter as I would, I could only conclude that Suleiman was sincere and that apart from his digestion, solicitude for the Sultan alone induced him to put forward these proposals, so as to bring the vast profits of the spice trade once more under the Sultan’s control. Mustafa ben-Nakir watched my expression narrowly and said, “You must see that Suleiman-pasha cannot propose this of himself. After seeming opposition to the plan he will give in and build the fleet, and take it to India if the Sultan so commands. Michael, here is the opportunity of your life. If you succeed and have a share in this enterprise from the beginning, the princes of the West will one day envy you your riches.”

  Suleiman stretched his fat legs and curled his toes luxuriously, saying, “I have few passions, but I love to collect human beings. I love to see the varied forms in which Allah molds his dust, to inspire it with the breath of his nostrils. I have taken a fancy to your anxious eyes, Michael el-Hakim, and marvel at the deep line so prematurely drawn between your brows. You will ever be welcome to Cairo as my guest, and the time may come when you’ll be glad of a refuge and a protector beyond the range of the Sultan’s artillery. Victory and defeat are in the hands of Allah, and who knows what the morrow may bring?”

  Indian affairs so captured my imagination that I did all I could to secure Ibrahim’s support for Suleiman’s plan. And although because of the impending war the Seraskier had many other things on his mind, he did not fail to mention the matter to the Sultan, who secretly commanded Suleiman the eunuch to build his fleet, ostensibly to defend the Red Sea against the ever more daring raids of Portuguese pirates. But for this the Sultan would accept no help from Venice.

  Once again I begin a new book, and this time in the name of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate. For my eighth book will show how the worm of decay was already nibbling at the fairest of blossoms, and perhaps also poisoning my own poor renegade’s heart.

  BOOK 8.

  Roxelana

  THERE is but little to tell of the Sultan’s next campaign. It lasted from spring to autumn of the Christian year 1532, and came to nothing. Yet the march was eased by wise planning and perfect weather; strict discipline was maintained among the troops, and the three hundred pieces of artillery followed the marching columns without mishap. No general could have hoped for better conditions. But those who followed the progress on their maps noted with surprise that it slackened more and more as summer advanced. From midsummer onward, it became clear to the least experienced observer that indecision was delaying the march, until at last the whole of that gigantic army slowed to a halt and camped during August and September before the insignificant fortress of Guns.

  Advocates of peace in the West made the most of this period of delay and doubt. Envoys from the Persian governor of Bagdad and from the Prince of Basra brought conciliatory messages to the Sultan, and their arrival seemed timed to show that at the most favorable moment for energetic action in the East the Seraskier had sent the army away to make needless and unprofitable war on the Emperor. Little wonder then that the Sultan paused so hesitantly before Guns, embittered by its stubborn resistance, yet for appearances’ sake he was compelled to perse
vere. “Instead of proceeding to Vienna, however, he marched from Guns toward imperial Carinthia, and his vanguard had reached the gates of Graz before he felt justified by the lateness of the season in beginning his homeward march. And though the grisly trail of slaughter left by his forces struck terror to the hearts of Christians everywhere, yet this great enterprise turned out to be nothing but a disorderly, planless raid, bringing Suleiman no honor and causing trouble in his empire that was out of all proportion to the result.

  The only people to profit by this campaign were the Protestant princes of Germany, whom it enabled to make a pact with the Emperor at Augsburg. This for the time being ensured their religious freedom. Thanks to the pact Charles was even able to induce Luther to preach in favor of a united crusade against the Turks. Thus Grand Vizier Ibrahim’s hopes fell to the ground, and it became clear that yet again the Christians had made shameless use of their secret commerce with the Porte to secure concessions from the Emperor for their own ends.

  But I have not yet mentioned the hidden but decisive reason for the Sultan’s strange hesitation before the walls of Guns. At the opening of the spring offensive, a fleet of seventy sail had put to sea to defend the coasts of Greece. Early in August, on almost the very day that Ibrahim pitched his pavilion before Guns, this fleet was sighted by the combined navies of the Emperor, the Pope, and the Knights of St. John, as they lay at anchor in Preveza Bay. At the same moment a Venetian fleet of forty war galleys was seen rapidly approaching; these neutral vessels anchored at a convenient distance to await developments. It is my belief that the hot, windless days of August, 1532, decided the fate of the world for centuries to come. The Emperor’s navy was commanded by Andrea Doria, undoubtedly the greatest admiral of all time, whom Charles had made Prince of Malfi. The commander of the Venetian fleet was Vincenzo Capello, who was strictly bound by the secret instructions of the Signoria. But the names of the Turkish sea pashas I shall not mention. I was informed of their shameful conduct by Mustafa ben-Nakir, who was eyewitness to these events.

  Like his sovereign, Doria was a cautious man who would never give battle unless he were certain of winning. Perhaps he considered the Turkish war galleys too dangerous, although he numbered among his vessels the terrible carrack, that marvel of the seas-a floating fortress so lofty that her serried cannon could fire over the War galleys that commonly preceded her. Doria, then, did not attack, but secretly boarded the Venetian flagship to beg the commander to unite his force with the rest. No Mussulman fleet in the world could withstand them then, he said; they could proceed unhindered over the Aegean to the

  Dardanelles and destroy the fortresses there in the twinkling of an eye. Then Istanbul itself, its ancient walls denuded of defenders by the Hungarian campaign, would fall an easy prey to the Christian navies.

  But it was by no means to the Signoria’s advantage that the Emperor should by this single stroke attain to world dominion, nor was it desirable to put a spoke in the Sultan’s wheel. As the only well- matched opponent to the Emperor, he kept the nations of the world in healthy equipoise. Capello, therefore, as an obedient son of the illustrious Republic, politely declined on the grounds of the secret instructions he had received, though no one knows what these were. Then, mindful of the bonds of friendship uniting Venice with the Porte, Capello informed the two Turkish sea pashas of Doria’s intentions. As a result these valiant men quite lost their heads, weighed anchor that night, and rowed back with might and main to the shelter of the Dardanelles, leaving the Greek coasts to their fate.

  The return of the Moslem fleet in the utmost disarray, with its rowers half dead from exhaustion, threw Istanbul into a state of panic. The united navies of Christendom were expected to appear before the city at any moment. Wealthy Jews and Greeks began hurriedly packing their possessions for dispatch into Anatolia, and many of the highest officials discovered that their health required an immediate visit to the baths at Bursa. The garrisons of the Dardanelles fortresses were reinforced, and all available weapons supplied to them, while repairs were begun on the ruinous walls of Istanbul. The valiant caimacam was said to have sworn to die sword in hand at the gates of the Seraglio rather than capitulate, and this report, though intended as encouragement, gave the final impetus to the mad rush from the city.

  So witless and cowardly had been the action of the Turkish fleet that not one of the Sultan’s warships dared show herself at sea for a long time afterward. It was left to a young Dalmatian pirate, a beardless boy who later won renown under the nickname of the Young Moor, to bring to Istanbul the comforting tidings that Doria had abandoned his plan because his forces, unaided by the Venetian fleet, were insufficient to ensure victory. Instead he was laying siege to the fortress of Coron in Morea. The Young Moor had come to Istanbul to sell Christian prisoners from one of Doria’s supply ships, captured by him off Coron. He had at his disposal one little felucca and a dozen boys of the same mettle as himself, his only effective armament being a rusty iron cannon. Yet he seemed not to understand that he had done anything heroic in attacking Doria’s whole fleet with one little vessel, though the Sultan’s sea pashas had fled without even engaging it.

  The news he brought restored calm; the caimacam sent an express to the Sultan at Guns to report that all was well and that the campaign might continue, while the inhabitants of Istanbul hailed the Young Moor as a hero and pointed the finger of scorn at the sea pashas.

  Mustafa ben-Nakir had returned to Istanbul with the demoralized fleet, and on entering my house found Giulia and Alberto packing up my most valuable possessions with the help of the terrified slaves, while I studied the maps for the best route to Egypt where I meant to beg the protection of the good eunuch Suleiman. He passed on to us the Young Moor’s reassuring news.

  “Roll up your maps, my dear Michael,” he added. “Doria’s too old and cautious for such a gamble. Venice has saved us.”

  Giulia’s eyes sparkled with indignation.

  “Khurrem-sultana will never forgive the Grand Vizier for enticing the Ruler of the Faithful away into this foolish war and leaving us exposed to these perils. And if you had the least notion of how troublesome it will be to unpack all these pots and pans and ornaments and jars and mirrors and to put back all the curtains and carpets, you’d not laugh like that. I believe the Sultana is frightened enough to summon Khaireddin. Indeed he would have been sent for long ago had not the Grand Vizier been so eloquent in his praise; the Sultana is inclined to mistrust anything proposed by that ambitious schemer. But it’s to be hoped that after this ill-managed affair his days are numbered.”

  Mustafa ben-Nakir answered mildly, “Let’s not kick a man when he has already fallen. If the army returns safe and sound from Hungary we can allow the Grand Vizier to continue trusting to his star of fortune, this time in Persia. Sooner or later he’ll break his own neck. The Sultan and Ibrahim are together. They encounter the same dangers and the same obstacles and no doubt share the same tent. The Sultana would be most unwise to hurl accusations at the Grand Vizier as soon as he returns, for half would fall on the Sultan, and not even an ordinary man can endure reproaches after an enterprise which in his heart he knows has failed.”

  Giulia opened her mouth to retort; yet she had been listening attentively and allowed Mustafa ben-Nakir to proceed without interruption.

  “Persia is a big country; its mountain passes are treacherous and Shah Tahmasp with his gilded cavalry is a terrible foe-especially if, as I’ve heard, he is receiving arms from Spain. Would it not be wisest to send the Grand Vizier to that savage country alone? The Sultan is not obliged to go with the army; for once he can remain in the Seraglio to govern his people and make good laws, and remain beyond the all-too-powerful influence of his friend. If only I might have the opportunity of speaking to the most radiant Sultana, even through a curtain, I could whisper much good advice into her no-doubt seductive ear. It would be no sin for the slaves of the harem to speak to one of my sacred brotherhood, so long as the Kislar-Aga gave his permi
ssion.”

  He glanced at Giulia and then contemplated his polished nails, to give her time to reflect upon his proposal. But her flushed cheeks and averted eyes made it clear that she was only too anxious to convey Mustafa ben-Nakir’s request to the Sultana as quickly as might be. And when shortly afterward I beheld our graceful boat speeding over the water to Seraglio Point I spoke warningly to Mustafa ben-Nakir.

  “You frighten me. Don’t count on me to join you in going behind my lord Ibrahim’s back. And remember, he is the grand master of your order.”

  Mustafa ben-Nakir’s fine eyes flashed as he replied, “How shortsighted you are, Michael! We must play the Russian’s game so long as circumstances favor her. And I long to see for myself whether or not she is a witch. The Grand Vizier will be defenseless on his return, which is why we must persuade Khurrem that she would weaken her own influence by seeking his overthrow. No one could replace him, for he is the greatest statesman ever seen in the Ottoman Empire. And he will be master of the future if all goes as we hope. Without him the Sultan would be a reed bending to every wind. You don’t want that epileptic boy of his to succeed?”

  “But Prince Mustafa, not Prince Selim, is the eldest!” I exclaimed in astonishment.

  “If the Sultan were to die, none but Ibrahim would dare to send the mutes to Khurrem’s sons. So long as one of them is alive, a bowstring is all that can be predicted with certainty for Prince Mustafa.”