The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  The next morning, just as the muezzin announced his second prayer of the day, Murad appeared as promised and, after a quick wardrobe inspection, led his charge across the Third Court past the massive columns and into the Palace School. There, poised at the giant doors of the Great Hall, the senior page paused to remove his boots, an example that Danilo quickly followed. When he looked up, what lay before his eyes almost took his breath away — a vast space paved in a black and white marble pattern, bordered by massive marble pillars, and topped by a painted dome smothered in azure and gold flowers. It presented a stunning contrast to the cozy Harem School. What made it seem even grander in Danilo’s eyes was that the hall was almost completely empty at this hour except for the few pages who flitted back and forth like shadows without making a sound. In these precincts, Murad explained, silence was enforced out of respect for the Sultan, should he happen to honor them with a visit.

  From the Great Hall, they proceeded through a labyrinth of marbled corridors until they reached a wide portal carved with a single motto, a warning to all on the premises that God ruled: La Ilaha’ Illa Allah Mohamed Rasoul Allah. There is only one God and Mohamed is his prophet.

  “And now we come to what will be your residence, the Hall of the First Oda,” Murad announced as he ushered Danilo through the portal of his future home.

  Perhaps the grandeur of the entrance hall had led him to expect too much. Whatever the reason, Danilo could hardly contain his disappointment at the meagerness of the dormitory. The room was big, God knows, but crowded from end to end with rows of tiny cubicles and hemmed in by a gallery halfway up the wall from which the entire room could be observed. In the Doctor’s House, his father had provided him with a spacious, sunny private room, a soft bed, and a carved desk. Here, he was presented with a cell not much larger than his old bed, featuring a thin pallet, a lumpy kind of quilt, and a small storage chest, which, Murad explained, would do double duty as a desk.

  Although Danilo tried his best, he could not conceal his disappointment from his sharp-eyed mentor.

  “You’ll be out of here before you know it,” Murad assured him. “The competition for places on the gerit team begins tomorrow, and if you land a place on the team — which I hear is more than possible — you’ll move right in with us, into the Third Oda. But first you need a haircut.” With that, he led the way through the dormitory to an adjoining suite of rooms, the hamam.

  Being still young and of fair complexion, Danilo had not much to show in the way of a beard and therefore not much to lose when it was summarily shaved off. But he had continued to keep his blond hair at shoulder length in the Italian style throughout his years in the Harem School. In a way, that cap of golden curls was his badge of identity. Now the curled locks lay all around him on the floor, except for one tress in front of each ear carefully trimmed to line up with the tip of his nose. He left the barber’s chair feeling naked. The loss of his privacy, he could tolerate. But his hair . . . More than any other thing, that first haircut brought Danilo a glimmering of what it meant to be the Sultan’s personal property, to be done with as his master wished.

  Murad hurried him along to the first meal of the day, then being served. On this day, the new page was given special permission to take his meals with Murad and other members of the gerit team in the Hall of the Commissariat, all of them handsome, all good-spirited, all hungry like himself, and all ready to welcome a fellow athlete whose reputation for prowess with the gerit had preceded him. Just as Murad had planned it, this glimpse of what his life in the Palace School could become restored Danilo’s will to make the team, or die trying.

  Mind you, in living memory, no member of the First Oda had ever made the leap straight to the gerit team in the first try. But then, no Jew had ever been accepted to the Palace School either. And Danilo gathered from the hints he got at the commissary table that his value to the team had been the deciding factor in his acceptance to the school. Tidbits of conversation such as, “the team has been in need of some younger blood” and “we’re looking forward to riding with you” and “it’s time that every oda was represented on the team,” suggested that his masters would likely want to make quick use of the talent they had selected him for.

  That night, at the end of his first day and second meal, Murad brought his charge back to his dormitory, not as unabashedly happy as he had been before the haircut but fairly optimistic about his possibilities. After showing him how to unroll his blanket and how to hang it up the next morning, and teaching him the pages’ main prayer for the Sultan — for the repose of the souls of dead sultans and for the guidance of the priests of the Ulema — it was time for Murad to say goodbye.

  But wait. Just one more thing. As soon as Danilo received his first pocket money, he would be free to buy his own clothes. “But be sure,” Murad warned, “to dress in a manly fashion. Especially do not choose feminine colors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, you know. Fuchsia or lavender. No black. And remember, you are the Sultan’s page. People are watching you. Always have your clothes pressed and your caftan buttoned; underwear clean and — important — a fresh pocket handkerchief every day.” This was the third time that day he had heard about the pocket handkerchief. It had been a long day. He had been shorn of his hair, like Samson, and pummeled and harangued and ordered around from sun-up to sunset. He had had enough.

  But Murad, concerned lest he fail in his tutorial duties, plunged on. “Pay attention to what I tell you. You must be sure to take a bath at least once a week. And get a weekly manicure and pedicure. And shave at least twice a week. And have a haircut once a month.”

  Danilo was quite certain he had been given these instructions in full at the hamam that morning, but it seemed rude to interrupt so he nodded his understanding and let the lecture continue to roll over him. And roll on it did.

  “It is anathema to manicure in public or to splash water on others in the hamam. And, in the dining hall, don’t forget, never begin to eat until your superiors have been served and do not gobble up the food with your eyes no matter how hungry you are. Or eat in haste or talk with your mouth full. Above everything else, Allah forbid should you belch or hiccough during a meal.” Had he not been so tired, Danilo would have become resentful by now. But he nodded agreeably, anything to get rid of his new lala.

  “Last thing. In the street, no yawning, no stretching, no scratching, and no hunting for fleas.”

  Again, Danilo nodded obediently and was rewarded with a sudden curt, “I bid you good night.” At last.

  But as he was drifting off he heard, as if from a far-off distance, the voice of Murad droning on in his head. “Something I need to tell you . . .”

  This voice was not in his head. This voice was beside his ear on the pillow. This voice belonged to a hand that was shaking him awake. “This is important. Wake up and listen.”

  Wearily, Danilo opened his eyes.

  “I forgot to impart to you the advice I received from my mentor when I entered the school.” Would this endless tutelage never stop?

  “Tomorrow?” Danilo asked hopefully.

  “Tonight. There is paper and ink in your cask. Write this down. That way you will not forget.” And there he stood, implacable, a sterner enforcer than any teacher Danilo had ever had, including his Albanian riding instructor.

  “Now write.”

  Danilo dipped the pen into the ink and wrote, “A page must keep silent as a woodcutter in a Russian peasant’s house. He must comport himself as if honey were on his tongue and oil of almonds on his back. At times he must be blinder than a mole, deafer than a heathcock, more insensible than a polypus. But, at other times, he must have the eyes of a lynx and the ears of a Pomeranian wolf-dog. He must learn to turn his eyes always upon the ground (as if Danilo was too stupid not to have noticed that all the pages kept their eyes on the ground) and to keep his arms always crossed over his breast. (That too
!) As he approaches manhood, he must become more circumspect, trust no one, expect the worst. Mankind is wicked. Self-interest is the mainspring of action. And virtue is mere hypocrisy. Remember this,” he concluded. “You know nothing of the world. How are old you? Fifteen?”

  “Fourteen,” Danilo acknowledged.

  “As I said, a boy. That school in the harem is a nursery. This school will make you a man of the world. Someday you will thank me for this advice, even if tonight you hate me for disturbing your sleep. So, good night.” This time, his mentor was gone for good. Left alone at last but now beyond fatigue, Danilo wondered if he was capable of remembering the catechism of instructions, which led him directly into questioning if he really wanted to. Papa was right, he thought. This is no place for me. Rules, rules, rules. And a hard bed and bad food. Maybe I should give it up.

  Even a visit to the stables to register for the gerit contest the next morning did little to rekindle his enthusiasm. As he trundled his heavy gear to the practice field, he found himself wondering why he was there. Only a few steps away lay the comfort and freedom of his father’s house. Why not just chuck the whole idea? Everybody knew that no page from the First Oda had a chance to play on the Sultan’s gerit team. And the thought of spending an entire year in the First Oda being watched and measured and found wanting loomed up gloomy, bleak, and dismal.

  That was his mood when he entered the lists for the hurling contest the next morning. Of course he won the first round against the boys of the lower odas. But what did that signify? Only that he was the best of the worst. And when the older contenders stepped up, his score was no better than their best. But in the riding ring, his mood began to change. It was one of those days when he could do nothing wrong. Riding backward toward the target, he fired off a stream of arrows and hit the target in the center every time. Galloping across the ring, he leaned down and retrieved a ball from the ground without slackening his pace for a moment. The entire afternoon went like that. And when he looked over at the judges’ stand just before the final test, whom should he see but his riding master from the Harem School motioning at him with both thumbs up. A very good sign.

  The final round was a jump, the highest he had ever attempted. He cleared it with room to spare and cantered off the field, still far from confident that he had passed the test but pleased with himself for having done his best. Whether that was good enough, only time would tell.

  He had not long to wait. The final selections were announced in the dining hall that evening, and Danilo del Medigo, the freshman Jew, headed the list of those chosen to join the Sultan’s gerit team that year.

  Did he have a momentary longing for someone to share his good news with? Yes. Did he think wistfully of Princess Saida, his confidante and friend? Yes. But she was lost to him now, beyond reach. And his new teammates were beckoning.

  Being younger than all the rest, he quickly became a kind of mascot to them, the frequent butt of rude jokes but at the same time the subject of real affection. And he had his horse for companionship, his own horse — a gift the Sultan gave to each member of his team — which Danilo named Bucephalus. And he had the rights to his own stall in the Sultan’s stable, where he spent his evening hours combing and grooming the animal’s coat until it shone, as he recalled his mother having told him she did as a girl. Buoyed by this double dose of good fortune, he barely had time to notice the darker side of his newly charmed life. And the news he sent to his father, who was away on campaign in the field, was all good.

  Dear Papa:

  Today in the ring, I un-saddled myself and re-saddled myself at full gallop. This is one of the four basic turns we must master in this first year. The last of the four is when we gallop two by two and switch horses in mid-gallop. I tried that once in the Harem School with Prince Mustafa as my partner, and we both ended up in the ditch with skinned knees. But here I know that I will master the move because my partners are all such excellent riders and we practice every day, rain or shine. I know that you view the gerit as a hazardous sport, but, Papa, a man can be trampled in the street by a runaway camel. And here, we learn slowly, step-by-step, always very carefully watched and constantly warned to take no unnecessary chances.

  I hope this will allay your fears for my safety. Believe it or not, I am most secure when I am on the back of my horse. And, Papa, where else would I get to ride every day with my friends, on my own horse? And Bucephalus keeps me company in the evenings when the others are at the mosque. And, yes, I take my Torah with me to the stables and read to him. I do not believe it matters to God where or with whom we do our study. Do you have thoughts on this?

  Your most respectful son,

  Danilo del Medigo

  P.S. As you warned me, the discipline is strict, even harsh. But there are no picky quarrels or tattle-telling between us in this school, only friendship and loyalty, because we stand or fall as a team.

  I thank you every day for allowing me to be here and I thank God every day for bestowing on me such good fortune.

  6

  A WISH COME TRUE

  Strict? Harsh? In writing about the School for Pages to his masters in the Venetian Senate, their bailo reported that discipline was enforced with an austerity and a relentlessness that rivaled a Capuchin monastery. For Danilo del Medigo, it represented a way of life unlike any other he had ever known. Having lived through the sack of Rome, he was no stranger to violence and cruelty. And certainly his residence in Topkapi, where every event unfolded with scrupulous obedience to protocol, had acquainted him with the formality of the Oriental style. But the impersonal, calculated punishment meted out by the school’s eunuch overseers stationed night and day on the balcony overlooking his dormitory was something new in his experience. Monitored by the eunuchs for their behavior, by teachers for their academic performance, and by a mullah for their religious observance, the young pages were constantly subject to severe punishments for the slightest infringement — lateness, dirty shoes, a misspelled word, a whisper during prayers.

  One hour before dawn, the sleeping pages were summoned by three strikes of a gong suspended from the ceiling of their dormitory. Half an hour later the Chief Aga came around to inspect their beds. Any page discovered still in his bed was pulled out and scolded. Always an early riser, Danilo did not find this onerous. But when one of his mates overslept for the third time and was punished with ten strokes of the bastinado that crippled him for a week, the screams of the offender when the cane cut into the soles of his feet seemed to bite into Danilo’s own flesh as well.

  The routine was unvarying. Lessons began at sun-up. At four hours after sunrise, the first meal was served, consisting of boiled mutton without sauce, a thin loaf of bread and a bowl of cheese, lentil or cream soup thickened with rice, honey, and saffron or currants. No salad, no sherbet, no melons, and no variation except for the currants.

  Next came school work and athletic training followed by the second meal — the same monotonous repast as the first, day after day. With his already healthy appetite stimulated by daily bouts of physical exercise, Danilo would have been ready to gobble down the thinnest shepherd’s gruel had it been the only dish on offer. But most of the pages — some more picky, others hungrier — complained bitterly about the food.

  At sunset, prayers were attended in the mosque — from which the Jewish page was excused — followed by a quiet hour of Koran study and ablutions. The presiding eunuch announced bedtime by striking a cane on the floor. Lights out. No talking. In the morning while the pages were at the mosque, the caregivers searched through their trunks for groceries and love letters.

  This regimen was followed six days a week, punctuated by the mandatory five prayer breaks each day. The only deviation was a serving of pilaf at the second meal every Thursday.

  But twice a year two official Bayram festivals were celebrated: the Bayram of sacrifice that marks the sacrifice of Isaac and the Bayram of sweets at the end
of Ramadan. On these two occasions, the pages dressed up in their finest clothes and attended a baisemain held by the Sultan where they kissed the hem of his garment and, with his blessing, received his permission to spend the next four days pleasuring themselves day and night.

  Uninhibited by any thought of rules or punishment during these respites, they were permitted to leave the confines of their dormitory and cross the waterway, awash with caiques and barges loaded with revelers. Once landed, they were free to roam the streets of the capital unhindered and unfettered.

  Other than the Bayram reprieves, it was all work and very little play for the Sultan’s pages. Seen through the eyes of someone like the Venetian bailo, the investment of thought, time, energy, and money needed to keep this training school running seemed excessive. But to the Ottoman sultans, this school was the bedrock of what foreigners called the Ruling Institution and what their subjects simply called the Sultan’s cul, a governing caste of slaves who owed allegiance strictly to him. This cul was the unique invention that had enabled an obscure mongrel nomadic tribe to conquer, hold, and expand a sphere of influence exceeding the Roman Empire in less than one hundred years.

  The speed of that transformation boggled the European imagination. Observing it from the west, it seemed as if one day the Osman tribe was a ragged band of ghazi march warriors and overnight became the scourge of Christian Europe. Having converted early on to Islam and changed their name from Osman to Ottoman, they attributed their remarkable rise to the beneficence of Allah. They saw their mission as a jihad against infidels. But they went at it with a stony pragmatism that owed more to Sun Tzu than to Mohammed. And like their Oriental forbears they seemed to have a gift for recognizing problems early and solving them without delay, often using methods borrowed from others, in particular their enemies.

  When, in the middle of the fourteenth century, the first Ottoman gave up being a march warrior in the style of Ghengis Khan, took on the title of Sultan, and set about to create an empire, he wasted no tears on the demise of his traditional tribal council. Clearly that instrument of clan life was inadequate to the tribe’s new ambitions. In what became a hallmark of Ottoman style, the new Sultan and his advisors began to look around — not only in Asia but in Europe as well — for models of how other great powers protected, maintained, and managed their greatness.