Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  Hamon thought about Suleiman, the heir to the throne. He had had very little contact with the young prince. Selim wanted his own doctor nearby, and Suleiman spent almost all of his youth learning the lessons of governing in the far-off provinces. Rumors at the palace were that he had become a fine young man, and that at twenty-five he was known for his scholarship, poetry and an even-handedness in dispensing justice. Yes, Hammon thought, life might even improve now that Selim Yavuz was dead.

  Why had Piri Pasha been so worried? Hamon wondered. Why was it necessary to keep the death of Selim a secret for so many days? Surely, the Janissaries would remain loyal. They had loved Selim, of course, for the continuous military campaigns and the booty they brought. Hamon had hated the constant trips to the battlefield. He hated being taken from his family in Istanbul. His son, Joseph, named after the boy’s grandfather, was in his teens, that age when he needed his father’s guidance and presence. The boy would become a doctor, of course, as all the Hamons before him. With luck and his father’s reputation to help him, Joseph, too, might rise to the post of court physician. He could become the doctor for Suleiman and for Suleiman’s son. The dynasty of Hamon doctors could flourish alongside the dynasty of the Ottomans. Why not? he thought with a visible shrug of the shoulders.

  Moses Hamon carefully closed his treasured anatomy book and wrapped it in heavy cloth. He put it into his travel chest and shut the lock. As he looked about the tent for any other belongings that were not packed by his servants, he heard the muezzin call the faithful of Islam to prayer. He pictured in his mind the many people all over the empire who were now getting ready to face the holy city of Mecca and kneel down upon their prayer mats. From every direction, Arabic words would rise into the air and affirm their most cherished belief. There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet.

  Hamon stood alone in his tent surrounded by the sounds of the praying Muslim soldiers. Listening to the voices on all sides, he removed his phylacteries from their embroidered blue silk pouch. He placed the small, wooden cube containing the inscriptions from Deuteronomy against his forehead, and carefully wound the long leather thongs around his head to hold it in place. He attached the second cube to his left biceps and wound the leather thongs around his forearm and hand. Then, looking straight ahead into nothingness, and surrounded by the voices of the Faithful, he said, “Shemah Yisrael, Adonoi eloheynu. Adonoi echod.” Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.

  Piri Pasha decided to depart under the cover of darkness. He needed all the lead time he could muster. He knew that his body could not take the pounding of the hard ride ahead as it once could; as it had done so many times on so many missions for his Sultan.

  He went to his serai, and sent his servants to fetch a heavy robe to cover his uniform. This he folded carefully and put into his saddle bag. Next he had food and water brought to him, some of which was packed for travel. The rest he hastily consumed in the tent while he dressed. He moved out to where his guards had brought his best horse. He took the reins and mounted quickly without help. His uniform was clean and ready for the journey. He would change into his disguise as soon as he was out of sight of the camp.

  Piri motioned to the guard to step aside, and slowly walked the horse through the encampment. He greeted the Janissaries with a solemn face as befit a Grand Vizier who had just lost his master. Then, he silently moved to the edge the camp, continuing over the nearby hills. He rode for less than twenty minutes, until he was sure that he was well beyond the sight of his outermost guards. He dismounted and unpacked the robes from the saddlebags. Piri quickly changed, and was soon up upon his mount once more. He dug his heels into the horse’s side, and cried, “Hut! Hut! Hut!” The horse accelerated from standing to a gallop in a single step, and Piri Pasha leaned into the beast’s neck. He held his knees tight against the saddle leather and steered the horse toward the City. Toward Istanbul.

  The road was gentle as he started his long ride, but he was unused to riding alone. For so many years, when he rode out at night, his way was lit with the torches of a hundred horsemen, making his path as bright as the day. Now, he moved into the approaching darkness, knowing he would have to slow his pace or lose his way in the night. Worse still, his horse might stumble and fall, and Piri Pasha, himself, might be injured; might not be there to pass the Sword of the House of Osman to the Son of Selim.

  As midnight approached, the old Pasha began to feel his age. His horse was strong and moved with the power that was legendary in these Arabian stallions. But, the gait was irregular, and the seat uncomfortable for the Pasha. This was a ride for a younger man and for younger bones. His thighs had ached for hours from the effort of squeezing the horse’s sides to maintain his balance. Now he could barely feel his legs at all. His back was pounded by the horse’s gait. His neck muscles knotted in spasm from the awkward position required of it. He could get comfortable neither at a trot nor at the lope; and a long gallop was out of the question for both him and the horse.

  So, Piri Pasha pressed on, pain dominating his mind, along with the agony of realizing that he had covered only a fraction of his journey in the first night of what would now certainly be at least a four-day ride. He kept the reins tight, and satisfied himself that, Inch’ Allah, he and his Sultan would arrive safely at the Tomb of Ayyüb together.

  Abdullah covered the ground between Edirne and the coast in just over twenty-two hours. He had reached the ferry at dark on the next night after leaving the camp.

  At the water’s edge, the ferryman was mooring his craft to the European shore. He had just packed his few possessions and his day’s meager earnings into a cloth bag. He was looking forward to a warm meal and a few hours sleep before beginning to work again before dawn.

  He was walking wearily up the slope of the embankment when the Sipahi came riding hard down the same slope. His horse was lathered and covered with mud, as was the Sipahi himself. The ferryman looked up in fear as the young rider bore down upon him. He dropped his sack to the ground and turned to run for whatever cover he could find. Abdullah closed on the running man. He brought his horse up short as the man stumbled in his flight and fell sprawling to the ground.

  “Get thee back to your post, old man, I will cross this water at once.”

  The old man remained sprawled upon the ground. He craned his neck to look up at the rider. “But, it is after dark, sir, and dangerous to be out there in the night. I cannot see, and there is no moon, and I…”

  “Enough! I am the Sultan’s Sipahi, and we will cross at once!”

  The old man was about to protest again, but he looked into the eyes of the young man towering over him on this powerful agitated horse. “Yes, sir. At once. Inch’ Allah.”

  Abdullah dismounted and walked his horse down to the water’s edge, while the ferryman unmoored his boat. As they crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles in the darkness, a distance of less than a mile, the Sipahi dozed. They made landfall on the Asian side in very good time. The Sipahi rose into the saddle as soon as the ferry scraped the sand and rock on the Asian shore. He threw the old man a gold coin from his purse. It was worth a thousand ferry rides, at least. “Allah be with you, my friend.”

  “And with you,” said the old man, who then lay down upon the sand to sleep a full night in Asia for the very first time in his life.

  Riding as hard as the darkness would allow, Abdullah turned his horse south again for the final push to Manisa and the caravanserai of his new Sultan. He did not dwell upon the great history beneath his horse’s hooves. Nearly two thousand years before, the young Alexander, Sikander, as Abdullah would have known him, had set off from Macedonia to conquer Asia. As Alexander turned south into what would become Turkey, his path was almost exactly that of the young Sipahi. Alexander crossed the water at the very same narrows, and then went by sea to the ancient city of Troy. He ordered his ships to halt, and in full battle armor, plumes flying from his helmet, he leaped into the sea and walked ashore. He drew his s
word and plunged it into the soil, declaring that he would plunge the very same sword into the heart of Asia, and conquer her. He stopped at the temple and was shown a shield said to have belonged to the Greek hero, Achilles, son of Zeus. Alexander dropped his own shield, and taking up the shield of his idol, began a journey into Asia that would forever change the face of the earth.

  But, the Sipahi dwelled on none of this. He first passed Çanakkale, where Selim’s grandfather, Mehmet, had built the Bowl Fortress to protect the passage through the Dardanelles. Later, toward dawn, he passed the buried ruins of Troy, where Homer told of the pouting rages of Achilles, and of the beauty of Helen, and the infamous wooden horse. But, none of these ancient and historic places did the young Sipahi notice. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed rigidly upon the road ahead; his entire focus on his mission.

  The road was flatter now, and the country drier. Water would be a problem unless he stopped at every opportunity. At each springfed creek or late-summer rivulet, Abdullah would rest his horse and both would drink together. He kept his water bottle topped off at every opportunity. He ate little from his bags, hoping to make the food last until he was very near to Manisa. He was finding it difficult to stay awake in the saddle as the second night opened onto dawn. He dared not sleep, for though there was little fear of falling from the saddle—he had slept many times in such a position—there was still the threat of highwaymen. When he rode with his corps of Sipahis at his side, he could doze and wake, knowing that his brothers would guard his flank. But, now he was by himself, and he alone was responsible for his own safety…and perhaps that of the realm.

  Abdullah pushed still further south through the historic and turbulent lands of Asia Minor. There were olive groves along the wayside, but he never stopped to pick the remnants of the summer’s crop. Long stretches of arid, rocky ground were intermingled with green and rolling hills. He kept to the coast, for though this was longer in miles, he could push his horse harder over the flat land, avoiding the mountainous terrain of the interior. Each river they forded gave both horse and rider a refreshing bath and new energy. But, by the third day their energy was flagging badly. The horse stumbled more, and needed more rests. Once they fell together while coming down a steep hill. Only the grace of Allah had prevented the horse from rolling over on the young man and crushing him to death.

  The rider knew his mount well, and allowed the horse to make decisions as to his own needs for rest. Abdullah dozed more often now in the saddle, despite the risks. He could barely hang on over the last fifty miles. The horse was bleeding from several cuts on his legs that he got from stumbling over rocky terrain. The rider began to lose sense of time and place. But, the two pressed on, the rider driven by the urgency and importance of his mission, the beast by his devotion to his rider.

  Finally, on the evening of the third day, the perimeter guard at the caravanserai of Suleiman caught sight of a horse and rider staggering slowly toward them. They mounted their fresh animals and rode out to meet the intruder. Lances and scimitars ready, they rode full gallop to intercept the possible threat to their prince.

  Only when they were yards away did the guards recognize the once-proud blue uniform and the sheathed scimitar of the rider as one of their own. The boy had long since lost the plumed white hat that is so easily recognized from afar. One of the Janissaries leaped from his own horse and grabbed the reins from the young man. Instantly, in his confusion, the Sipahi reached for his scimitar, but the Janissary grabbed his wrist and held him firmly in his strong grasp. “Calmly, my friend. There’s no need to draw your weapon. We both serve the Sultan, Selim.”

  The Sipahi relaxed his grip. He had no strength left for fighting anyway, and soon realized that he was safe; that he could now deliver his message and remove the heavy weight of the mission from his back.

  The Janissaries led the Sipahi’s horse into the caravanserai of Suleiman. They brought the young man to the tent of Suleiman’s closest friend and adviser, Ibrahim. The Inner Guard led the boy’s horse away to be fed and rested. The boy staggered along with the help of the Janissary and was led into Ibrahim’s tent. Word had already reached Ibrahim of the Sipahi’s arrival, and he was consumed with curiosity as to what this meant.

  Abdullah bowed, and then fell to his knees. Though he was meant to deliver the letter directly to the Sultan, he was unable to resist these men in front of him. He reached into his robes and pulled out the letter that Piri Pasha had given to him; safe delivery of the message was the sole purpose of this terrible ordeal.

  The Janissary took the sealed letter and handed it to Ibrahim. Ibrahim stared at the Sipahi for a moment. The boy could not have been more than eighteen, and even through the mud and the grime, his beautiful clear features were striking. Ibrahim unrolled the parchment and held it near to his oil lamp. He read the message in silence, and then moved toward the door. “Bring this young man with me. We must take this to the Master at once. There will be questions, I’m sure.”

  Suleiman was awaiting Ibrahim, as he, too, had received word of the arrival of this unusual visitor. He was surprised at how quickly Ibrahim had come to his tent, though his own corps of advisors were already present.

  “Come in, my friend. What have we here?”

  Ibrahim bowed to Suleiman, and motioned for the guard to bring in the Sipahi. The young man staggered, and then knelt on both knees as he pressed his head to the rich carpet in front of Suleiman. Ibrahim handed his master the parchment, while the boy’s head remained pressed to the ground.

  Suleiman unrolled the document and read it to himself. Then, he looked up and read the words aloud.

  “The Sword of the House of Osman awaits you at the Tomb of Ayyüb.” Nothing more. There was no signature or seal.

  Immediately, the advisers began to talk all at once, some rejoicing that their master was now the Sultan, and others fearing some ruse to get Suleiman away from the safety of his Janissaries.

  “Ears deceive, eyes reveal,” one of the advisers said to Suleiman. Many pleaded for him to remain in Manisa, and even to increase his guard.

  “Send an emissary. Perhaps, Ibrahim himself,” the other suggested.

  Suleiman listened, but didn’t speak. He looked to Ibrahim and raised his eyebrows in question. Then he asked, “Ibrahim? What do you think?”

  Ibrahim looked at the note again. Then he turned to the boy, still in a position of prostration before his prince. “What do you say? Who wrote this message that you bring to us?”

  The Sipahi raised his head, but not his body. He looked at Ibrahim, for he was afraid to meet the eyes of the Son of Selim. “Piri Pasha, himself, has written these words, and Piri Pasha, himself, has commanded me to ride and deliver the message. I have ridden for three days and nights to bring this to you. This, in the name of Allah, I swear to you.”

  Suleiman took a bag of gold coins from his table and tossed them to the young man. “Take him away, and see that he is fed and cared for. Let the tabip examine him and see to his needs; and the same for his horse.”

  With the help of the guards, the young man rose and backed away from the Son of Selim. He never took his eyes off the floor. Servants took him by the elbows as he was guided backward out of the serai. One does not turn one’s back on the Sultan. He was led away to some blankets under an olive tree, while servants were sent to fetch the doctors.

  “I think, my lord, that the young man is telling the truth,” Ibrahim said.

  “And, why do you think so?”

  Ibrahim moved closer to Suleiman. He lowered his voice and said, “If this were a lure to get you from the protection of your guards, I think it would have been clearer. It would have said outright that your father, Selim, is dead; or used the name of Piri Pasha, or his seal. Instead, it only speaks only of the Sword of the House of Osman and the Tomb of Ayyüb.”

  Suleiman nodded and walked to the door flap. The Janissaries held the flaps apart. Suleiman walked out into the night with Ibrahim close to his side.

 
They walked to the olive tree where the boy was lying. “Look, Ibrahim. He has not even the strength to change his clothes or take a little food. He is so deeply asleep I doubt that cannon fire would wake him.”

  “Yes, and look. The gold you gave him lies on the ground next to his blanket. He hadn’t even the strength to hide it in his robes. Anyone could steal it.”

  Suleiman nodded and returned to the tent. He told his advisers, “The Sultan’s Sipahi has told the truth. My father is dead. I must go to the Tomb of Ayyüb to claim the Sword of the House of Osman. Prepare. We’ll leave at first light.”

  The Road from Manisa to Istanbul

  September 24th, 1520

  Suleiman rode easily on his brown stallion, continuing the fast pace he had kept up since dawn. He, too, would follow the level coast road, as had the young Sipahi, to spare the horses and conserve time. His body was synchronized to the rocking gait of his mount, his hands held lightly on the reins. Thousands of hours in the saddle had made him a fine and confident horseman.

  He was a thin, wiry young man, with a fine black mustache. He had a long, slender neck and dark, brown eyes, shielded by thick, black eyebrows. He was said to resemble his great-grandfather, Mehmet, more than Selim, and had adopted Mehmet’s habit of wearing his turban low over his forehead, which often gave him a stern and forbidding look. He was reserved and calm most of the time, only showing his father’s temper when circumstances seemed to be getting out of control.

  The most remarkable feature of his face was the sharp, hooked nose with its high prominent bridge, reminiscent of his beloved hunting falcons. Of course, no one dared comment about that in his presence.

  Though his skin was usually pale, his hands and face were now brown from the hours of riding out in the summer sun with Ibrahim, his Chief Falconer and Master of the Horse. Over the years, Suleiman and Ibrahim had spent long days together riding through the countryside, with the Janissary guard as far behind them as safety would allow. At those times, Suleiman was tempted to spur his horse ahead, and leave the guard—and the reminder of who he was and who he was about to become—behind him, even if for only a few hours.