Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  Suleiman took the apple from Bali Agha, and smiled at him. Then he turned back to the crowd, and holding the apple high, he said, “In good time. In good time.”

  Again, the crowd broke into shouts of joy and the fervent cheer again rose from all around the Sultan. Suleiman took a bite and tossed the apple high into the air. The Janissaries surged forward trying to catch it. Before it fell into the crowd, a scimitar flashed, and two halves of the apple came tumbling from the air.

  “Make the gift, make the gift!” But, Suleiman stepped from the platform, and with his small retinue of personal guard began his walk to the Palace.

  The men went silent. Bali Agha sagged with disappointment. He had hoped that Suleiman would give out the gold at that very moment. It had been the perfect time to seal the loyalty of these men. The crowd parted in silence, and the Agha followed Suleiman toward the palace.

  Achmed Agha had been sitting quietly in the shade nearby. He was glad that the Sultan had shown no fear in the presence of the Palace guard, but he had hoped for more. The Sultan had missed his chance.

  Ibrahim stirred the coals and built up the fire in the small room deep inside the interior of the palace’s Third Court. The Sultan’s apartments adjoined the harem, and were guarded by both the corps of palace eunuchs as well as the Janissaries. Suleiman leaned against the back of the divan and pulled his white silk robes tighter around him. The early fall air had chilled quickly, and the dampness seeped even into the Sultan’s household. He had been silent since the episode at the ferry landing, and Ibrahim knew it was best to let his master ruminate alone on these matters. When it was time to seek Ibrahim’s advice, Suleiman would speak.

  The dinner plates were removed and the servants finished clearing the room in silence. Suleiman had touched almost nothing but for a few sips of fruit nectar. Even the aroma of the spiced lamb had seemed to annoy him. The pilaf went untouched as well. Ibrahim, as usual, left nothing on the golden plates nor any wine in his jade goblet.

  “Eight years ago my father sent me off to govern in the provinces. To become a leader of state. To go to ‘The School of the Empire.’ I have barely laid eyes on him since then. I have no idea who he was, nor do I think he ever learned who I was.”

  “You were his favorite. That is certain.”

  “I am alive, at least. I suppose that tells me something. Do you know the last thing he ever said to me?”

  “No, Majesty. I do not.”

  “He bid me farewell, and then he said, as if this were to guide my every decision, ‘If a Turk dismounts from the saddle to sit on a carpet, he becomes nothing. Nothing!’”

  Ibrahim listened, but did not respond. Suleiman continued, “So here I sit upon a carpet, and the reality is that until Piri Pasha arrives, and he and the Aghas gird me with my family’s sword, I am ‘nothing, nothing!’”

  “You are the Shadow of God on Earth, my Lord.”

  “Not until I wear that sword! And that power is in the hands of others! How can I be the Shadow of God on Earth, when all that separates me from death by the silken cord is the whim of another man? Of other men? Why, I might be lying in one of those family graves, and another Shadow of God would rule the Ottomans. Is this the will of Allah? Is this the Plan of God? My power comes only from the will of a band of slaves whom my family have trained and educated, and who are loyal to us for the gold we give them? These Janissaries are the Devshirmé, as too are the Aghas! They are Christian children taken from their families to fill our armies. Slaves!”

  Ibrahim waited for Suleiman to go on, but the Sultan seemed to have finished.

  “I, too, was a slave, my Lord,” Ibrahim said quietly. “I was trained for duty in the royal household. And you know my loyalty does not rest upon the whim of any man.”

  Suleiman did not respond to Ibrahim’s remarks. He rose and began to pace the small dingy room. He shrugged his robes closer and scuffled his slippers along the carpet as he paced. “We trained them, we educated them. We took them from behind a plow and mounted them upon the finest horses in the world. They were starving children dressed in rags. They could neither read nor write. They had no future except for starvation and a lifelong dwindling until their deaths. Now they wear jewels in their scabbards. Herons’ plumes in their hats. We made them into a fighting force that can conquer the world. And now that mighty weapon is poised at my throat! I am subject to the whims and tantrums of ten thousand slave boys, commanded by a handful of old men!

  “And my father tells me that I must not dismount from my horse to sit upon a carpet! This from a man who wanted to slay every Greek Christian in the kingdom because he thought it might please Allah! That it would bring blessings upon him!” Suleiman’s voice was steadily rising.

  Ibrahim nodded, and then shook his head slowly in amazement as he focused on what Suleiman was saying. “And he would have slain them all if it weren’t for Ali Djemali,” Ibrahim said. Djemali had been the Grand Mufti, the spiritual leader of the College of Islam, and the final interpreter of Islamic Law. “Only he had the nerve to stand up to your father and contradict him. I think Selim believed that Ali spoke directly to the Prophet…or even to Allah, Himself. Otherwise, Ali would have lost his head along with the others. Then, of course, Ali couldn’t stop Selim from slaying forty thousand Shiite heretics in Eastern Anatolia,” Ibrahim went on, “just for the public approval.”

  “If I had only thought to have the gold with me,” Suleiman said, “to have had it there at the ferry while they were cheering me. Their frenzy and their wildness could have been made to work for me. If only I had thrown a few bags of gold among them as a prologue to the generosity of the new Sultan. Even what gold I carried on my person would have been gesture enough.”

  Suddenly there was a noise at the door, and Suleiman whirled to meet the possible threat. Ibrahim dove off the divan and grabbed his sword by the handle, pulling it from the scabbard, which clattered to the floor. Nobody could enter the Sultan’s presence without being announced. Though he couldn’t articulate the thought in words, Suleiman’s mind pictured a Palace coup, a revolt of the Janissaries. And his own death.

  “Sultan Suleiman Khan!” the voice roared through the quiet of the palace. There in the doorway stood the only man who could arrive at the Sultan’s door without escort or guard; the only armed man on Earth besides Ibrahim who could get this close to the Sultan without carving his way through the palace guard with a sword.

  “Piri Pasha!” said Suleiman. It could only be Piri Pasha. Though the man looked worn and haggard, Suleiman’s heart swelled at the sight of him. For, here was not a force of ten thousand Janissaries come to assassinate the new Sultan, but old Piri Pasha, his father’s most trusted friend; Selim’s Grand Vizier; and now, Suleiman’s Grand Vizier.

  Though Piri’s clothes were a mess, and the man looked about to fall over from exhaustion, there he stood, a great smile stretched across his face, his arms flung wide as he trudged forward to hug his new master. He took Suleiman’s hand in his and pressed it to his heart. Then he knelt and kissed the Sultan’s sleeve.

  “My Lord, forgive me for not being here to greet you. I hurried as fast as my strength and my years would allow. But, as you can see,” he said, his arms wide, displaying his filthy clothes, “I am getting too old for such hard travel, and these bones cannot take the punishment that they once could. I took a secret way home, but even Bali Agha’s huge army overtook me on the longer route.” Piri Pasha’s voice began to tremble with emotion, and a tears formed on his cheeks. “But, the very sight of you has given me strength. Look how you have prospered and grown! Why you were barely a lad when I saw you last. And now you are Sultan Suleiman, Emperor of the Ottomans!”

  Piri snapped his fingers and two servants appeared at the doorway carrying small packages. Piri took one of the gifts, wrapped in an ornate silk brocade, and handed it to Suleiman. The Pasha waited with bowed head as the Sultan untied the ribbons. Suleiman held the gift up for Ibrahim to see. It was a brand-new ornate cloc
k.

  “To mark the beginning of a new reign, my Sultan, ” Piri said.

  Suleiman hugged his Vizier silently, and put the clock down. Then he turned to see what other gifts Piri Pasha had brought to him. The remainder of the packages contained the funeral clothing: a black caftan and black pants. Piri moved close to Suleiman, carrying a golden caftan, folded into a neat, bulky bundle. In a quiet voice heard only by the Sultan and Ibrahim, he said, “My Lord, under these black robes of mourning, wear this tunic of richest gold brocade. Never be without splendor about your person. These people may love you for yourself, but when they look at you, they must see the Ruler of Rulers. Unfortunately, what they see is more important to them than what resides inside you. Your royalty must always be directly in front of their eyes.”

  Piri motioned to his servants, who brought forth another carved box and held it out to the Pasha. He opened the lid and removed three long red-dyed heron’s feathers and a large gold pin set with a giant ruby. He attached the feathers to Suleiman’s turban, and handed them to the Sultan. “The time of fear had ended, and a time of hope has begun. Inch’ Allah.”

  “A time of hope, Piri Pasha?”

  Piri went to the side divan and sat down wearily. He removed his own turban and motioned for his servants to leave. Then he looked from Suleiman to Ibrahim, and back to the Sultan.

  Suleiman smiled at the old Vizier. “Yes? Speak freely, my friend. ‘The time of fear has ended…’”

  Piri nodded and cast his eyes to the ground. “You know your father had spies throughout the kingdom. Nay, throughout the world! But, those he sent to Manisa to watch you governing there reported back to him faithfully every month.” Suleiman looked to Ibrahim, who shrugged resignedly. Piri went on. “You and Ibrahim were watched, my Lord, and they reported to your father that your governing was splendid; your legal decisions just. Still, they said, you spent much time hunting and riding and sailing along the coast. Their reports described the lives of young men passing their hours idly as young men do. Your father was told that you were a wise and just judge, and that Jews and Christians and Muslims all received fair hearing from you no matter what the dispute. You have lived up to your name, Majesty, for the ancient Solomon, son of David—Allah’s blessings be upon him—showed wisdom in his decisions and his judgments. And he lived to wear emeralds as well as rubies.”

  Suleiman absorbed the compliment. He asked Piri, “What did my father speak of when he knew he was soon to die? Did he ask of me?”

  Piri Pasha hesitated, then sadly shook his head. “As I was with your father constantly before he died, it is I, alone, who heard his last words. Surely it is right that you should know what he said.”

  Suleiman waited, and Piri continued. “He said to me, ‘I have no journeys left to make, save to the hereafter.’ Nothing more passed his lips until he died. I’m sorry, Majesty, but your father did not convey any other words to you.” Piri stopped. He thought he had gone too far in lecturing his new master on the wildness of youth. He said no more, but rested his gray beard upon his chest as he slumped with fatigue down lower on the divan.

  “No, Piri Pasha. Do not fear or be sad. You have given me hope, and it is my prayer that Allah will give me the strength to rule wisely and justly. The ‘time of fear’ I hope is buried forever.”

  Piri rose from the divan and knelt before Suleiman, who had now put on the black robes over the new gold tunic. Ibrahim placed the new turban upon the Sultan’s head. The three red heron’s feathers moved gently as the Sultan walked about the room. Piri quietly backed through the door, and then hurried from the palace. As he walked, he greeted the courtiers gathered there. He repeated again and again that now there was, indeed, “A Second Solomon” in the New Palace. He whispered to the Aghas of the Janissaries, and hugged many old friends. Outside the gates of the palace, the crowds heard the words repeated, “The time of fear has ended. It is a time for hope. There is a Second Solomon on the throne.”

  Suleiman and Piri Pasha were both dressed in their mourning clothes of black. The silent crowds could see gold brocade showing beneath the new Sultan’s robes, just as the Pasha had advised. They rode side by side out through the city gates, and awaited the arrival of the funeral cortège that had made its way slowly from Edirne. As the simple casket came into sight, Suleiman and Piri dismounted, handed their horses over to the waiting pages, and fell into step behind the casket. Four Janissary officers and four Sipahi officers carried Selim’s casket. The hill leading to the burial place was lined with fires that had been lit to protect the fallen Sultan from evil. As dictated by long-standing tradition, the body was taken from its casket by the eight officers, and in a simple ceremony, placed in a bare hole in the ground. There was none of the pomp that one might have expected for the funeral of the world’s most powerful leader.

  Suleiman and Piri stood by the graveside with lowered heads. The crowd was silent. Janissaries and Sipahis stood at attention as the shroud-wrapped body of their late Sultan was lowered into the ground. Their eyes were locked straight ahead, and there was now none of the wailing and crying that had erupted at Edirne when Piri Pasha had told them of the death of Selim. They were Suleiman’s army now, and they paid their respects to Selim with military decorum.

  Suleiman continued the ancient custom with the words that were said over the graves of other fallen Sultans. “Let the tomb be built, and a mosque joined to it. Let a hospital for the sick and a hostel for the wayfarer be joined to the mosque.” And with this, he mounted his horse and turned back toward the city with Piri Pasha. Then, he stopped for a moment, as if he had forgotten something. He turned back to the crowd and the army. Nobody had yet moved, all waiting for the Sultan to make his exit. He raised his head, as if a new thought had come to him. He added, “And a school…yes, a school. Over there.” Suleiman pointed to the ruins of an old Byzantine palace. There were marble and stone and old columns strewn across the ground in disarray, ample building materials, he thought, for a start. “Yes, right over there.”

  He and Piri remounted their horses and began the slow traditional walk outside the city walls. Ibrahim pulled up behind them and rode quietly in their wake. They proceeded past the crowd and the armed soldiers to the Tomb of Ayyüb, where Suleiman would, at last, be girded with the sword. Though Piri Pasha was the architect fully responsible for all the events leading up to this moment, he would actually be just a spectator at the symbolic climax to the day.

  They reached the place of Ayyüb’s Tomb and dismounted yet again. Piri and Ibrahim stood aside, as Suleiman alone crossed the open plaza. The small mosque was dwarfed by the walls of the city. It appeared as an ornate miniature monument to Abu Ayyüb al-Ansari, the companion and standard bearer of the Prophet, Mohammed. There, a wizened old man with a long white beard waited for the Sultan. He was the spiritual leader of the Mevlevi dervishes. By tradition, only this man could present the Sword of the House of Osman to the new Sultan. For centuries, the Mevlevis had been at every girding ceremony since the Osmanlis ruled Turkey. No Sultan had ever taken power without this symbol and rite.

  The old man was dressed in peasant’s robes, which were in stark contrast to the priceless curved sword he now held aloft. Without lowering the sword—still in its jeweled scabbard—he took Suleiman by the hand and led him to the raised platform, where the crowds could better see the moment of the girding. He placed the sword into the belt of the Sultan, turned to the crowd, and with Suleiman’s hand still firmly in his, said, “We, who believe from of old, give to thee the keys of the Unseen. Be thou guided aright, for if not, all things will fail thee.”

  There was silence in the crowd at this great moment, all wondering what lay in the heart of the new Sultan. Rumors of his governing in Manisa had reached the city, but few knew the soul of the man. They had all suffered terribly under the reign of Selim, the Grim. Suffering was an expected part of life for the majority of Ottoman Turks. How much, they wondered, would they suffer under this new Sultan?

 
; Only a few people in the closest part of the crowd heard what the frail old man had said, but all had seen their Sultan girded with the Sword of the House of Osman. Many wondered whether he would raise the sword again and set out on more unending military campaigns as Selim had done; or would he use his power to help ease and enrich the hard life of the ordinary Turk? A chant began to rise among the spectators. At first, Suleiman could not make out the words. He craned his neck forward, trying to hear the words of the people.

  The voices grew louder, until the entire populace seemed to be chanting together. Over and over they offered the advice commanded by tradition to their new Sultan: “Be not proud, my Sultan; Allah is greater than thee.”

  Suleiman nodded slowly, then turned the palms of both hands toward the sky to affirm the sage advice of his people.

  The procession moved away again toward the Palace. Ibrahim looked at Piri Pasha, as the old Vizier seemed to grow taller in his saddle. It was as if someone had taken a heavy stone off the old man’s back. Now, Piri could stand erect and breathe freely. Ibrahim wondered if he were destined to compete with the Grand Vizier. Piri had served Selim well for eight long years. He was the devoted and wise servant that every Sultan prayed for. Can Piri truly transfer all that loyalty to the Son of Selim? Ibrahim thought to himself. He is old and frail, and Suleiman needs someone strong and full of energy… He would not let himself complete the thought, like me.

  Piri had done exactly as Selim had ordered. The peaceful succession to the throne was accomplished. Now he only hoped to live out his days in peace, tending his tulips and his roses at his home across the Bosporus. With luck, he would never wear his sword again, unless commanded by his Sultan. May the Sultan never need my sword nor my services again, Inch’ Allah.

  But, Allah had different plans for Piri Pasha.

  Piri and Suleiman began their ride back to the New Palace. Ibrahim rode with them. After a while, as the shouting of the crowds diminished, Piri turned to the Sultan and said, “My Lord, the first acts of your office will be remembered by all the people more than anything else you may do. This is the time to show them who is the man living inside the robes of their Sultan; the man who wields the Sword of the House of Osman.”