“Is it not thrilling?” she asked for what seemed to Saida the tenth time. “And soon . . .”
Soon it will be over, the girl thought wishfully.
She longed for the serenity of the hamam, where any inclination toward rapid movement was inhibited by the high, stilted wooden clogs that the harem beauties wore to preserve their tender feet from hot marble tiles and to prevent them from slipping on the wet floors. These pattens also served to slow the women down and to train them, as ponies are trained in the show ring, to move through life in an even, mincing gait. It also helped to habituate the harem girls to a way of life in which the most strenuous sport was a game of “Istanbul Gentleman,” where one of the girls — dressed as a man, her eyebrows thickened with kohl and with a pumpkin on her head — sat backward on a donkey clutching the animal’s tail, while the other girls tried to knock her off. The game was, at the very least, a highly domesticated version of the gerit match and certainly a far cry from Saida’s early years in the Harem School, when she romped in the meadows playing kick-ball with her brothers and male cousins.
But now, two years of the soft life of the harem had taken their toll on her. Halfway through the day she was already done in, whereas Lady Hürrem couldn’t wait for more.
“And soon you will see your father again after . . . how many months? It seems to me like an eternity.” Hürrem reached for a sweet cake to ease her anguish but stopped, holding the pastry in mid-air. “Do you hear it?”
“Hear what, lady?”
“The tune. It’s ‘The Sultan’s March.’”
And to be sure, the sound of fifes and drums, the clash of cymbals and the jangle of tambourines were discernible at a distance.
“Be still my heart.” Hürrem clutched her bosom. “Listen!”
Happy to have something to contribute to what had been a long-running monologue, Saida responded, “The philosopher Plato says that music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, and life to everything.”
“Where did you learn that?” Suddenly, Hürrem’s sentiment was replaced by suspicion. “Surely they did not teach you such heresies in the Harem School.”
It was Saida’s moment and she savored it briefly before she replied, “I believe I heard it from my honorable father, the Sultan,” which brought the conversation to a full stop and enabled the princess to retreat to a sofa to enjoy a moment of quiet. But not for long. Soon, a loud blast announced the arrival of a fresh novelty below.
“Come here,” the lady beckoned the princess. “Come to the balustrade. Look down. Don’t be afraid. You must see the Janissaries.”
Wearily, Saida made her way back to join the lady at the parapet and leaned her throbbing forehead against the cool bricks. When will it be over? she thought.
“Any minute now he will appear,” Hürrem advised her, “just as soon as the Grand Vizier condescends to move himself from his master’s path.”
Indeed, it did appear that Ibrahim Pasha was prolonging his moment of adulation far longer than need be, stopping constantly to lower his jeweled turban to the crowd.
“You would think to watch him that he had won the war,” Hürrem sniffed. It was no secret in the harem that she loathed the Sultan’s chief councillor and constant companion.
But (“At last,” Hürrem sighed) the Grand Vizier and his train disappeared through the Gate of Felicity, and their place was filled by the Sultan’s hand-picked Janissary corps, unmistakable in their handkerchief-shaped white turbans and purple silks.
“The Padishah’s most trusted men,” Hürrem explained. “They are prepared to die rather than face defeat.”
These elite of the elite presented quite a different aspect than any of the troops that had gone before. Most striking, they were not in battle order but marched out of line in a dense pack, swaying like sailors and carrying almost no defensive armaments, each one bearing only a single harquebus or scimitar and every one with a little hatchet or spade hanging from his waist.
To make up for their lack of firepower, each of their turbans was festooned by a prodigious plume of bird of paradise feathers that fell in a curve down each back almost to the knees.
This odd contingent did indeed quicken Saida’s jaded senses. “So these are the famous Janissaries who put the fear of Allah into the armies of two continents. They look more like diggers than soldiers to me,” she commented.
“Do not be fooled by appearances, my girl,” Hürrem admonished her. “It was with just such weapons that the Ottoman army took from the Europeans the strongholds of Rhodes, Belgrade, and Budapest. When there are a hundred thousand men all working together with shovels and spades under the walls of a fortress, no amount of defenders can hold up a wall.”
“How do you know these things?” Saida asked, curious in spite of herself.
“Because I set myself to learn them as I want you to do. Believe me, a woman’s charm can go only so far with a man. Sooner or later, your husband will want a companion, somebody to talk to. And to joke with as well.”
A subtler woman might have noticed that, at the mention of the subject of marriage, she seemed to have lost her listener’s close attention. But Hürrem was a woman who considered it worth her while to observe nuances only in her dealings with men. With slaves, children, and other women, she found it less troublesome simply to pursue her own ends directly. So she went on chattering about marriage — a subject close to her heart — as Saida sank slowly back into lethargy.
“Saida, you are not listening.”
Reluctantly the princess managed to summon a somewhat half-hearted enthusiasm for the marvelous Janissaries even though she could not quite believe in their invincibility. They looked so . . . sloppy.
Once emptied of the rowdy Janissaries, the great square of the Second Court went silent. The first one to notice the black banner unfurled behind the two octagonal towers of the Middle Gate was Saida, and she did not need to be told what this portended. She stood up and lowered her head as a single member of the Ulema, honored above all the priests of Islam this day, walked solemnly into the Second Court, his eyes focused on the book in his hands. He began to read from the forty-eighth chapter of the Koran, the sura of Victory. He was followed by three other clerics who together slowly raised the tattered black flag to its full height. This was the Prophet’s Banner, one of the holy relics of Islam, which, along with the Prophet’s Mantle and his sword and a hair of his beard, the Ottomans considered their greatest treasure.
The first time Suleiman had set out to settle the fate of Vienna, this misshapen piece of black wool was taken from its pure gold cask, wrapped in forty silk coverings, and carried reverently all the way to Austria and back. During the terrible weeks of the siege of Vienna, it waved over the Ottoman encampment under the walls of the city, wordlessly exhorting the followers of Mohammed to fight for the faith, promising them that he who gave his life under its aegis would go straight to Paradise. This season it waved over the defeated ruins of Guns. Next season it would lead the way to Baghdad, Inshallah.
Directly below the tower, officials lined the path decorated like human icons in their jeweled turbans and gold-embroidered caftans. As the banner passed, they threw themselves face-down, careless of their finery, sobbing and calling the name of Allah. And there they remained, prostrate in the dust, until the banner was placed upright just outside the Gate of Felicity in a deep depression in the stone, carved out for the purpose in the days of Mehmet the Conqueror.
Up on the loggia, Saida joined those in the crowd able to repeat the Koranic reading from memory and, along with the rest, fell to her knees when the banner was raised, reiterating, “God is Great.” Beside her, Hürrem, in no hurry to soil her finery, simply bowed and smiled approvingly at her stepdaughter. The girl had all the instincts of a true princess and was also quick to learn. She would make a valuable addition to Hürrem’s entourage if and when the Second Kadin had n
eed of her.
With the Prophet’s Banner safely moored and the Sultan’s return duly sanctified by the reading of the sura of Victory, the stage was set for the hero of the day to take his place on the gold throne set out for him under the eaves of the Gate of Felicity. But instead of her father astride his mount, Saida saw coming through the gates a most curious conveyance: a litter, magnificently decorated for the occasion, held aloft by four sturdy bearers, its curtains pulled back by gold cords to reveal an aging man, perhaps once strong and hardy but now pale and shaking. In complete contrast to every other participant in the procession, he was dressed in a plain black cloak. And, to mark him off even further from the Emirs and the Agas and the Viziers, this poor fellow, hunched over and grimacing, seemed not to appreciate — not even to be aware of — his place of honor.
“Who is that man looking so foolish and dressed all in black? Why does he not wear a fine caftan like the others?” Saida asked Hürrem.
“That is the Padishah’s physician, Judah del Medigo.”
“And why does he dress all in black?”
“Because he is a Jew who does not follow our ways.”
“And why does he ride so close to my father?”
“Because he is a miracle worker. Twice he has saved your father’s life, once at Mohacs and once in Belgrade.”
“You don’t mean literally ‘saved my father’s life,’ do you?” the girl asked over her shoulder, her eyes on the slight, hunched figure below.
“Yes. Saved his life.”
The girl rose to her feet and pressed her eye to the lozenge-shaped slit in the brickwork. “He hardly looks capable of saving his own life.”
“That is because he was laid low by a fever at Guns. But during the first Austrian campaign, this Jew risked his life to save the Padishah from drowning.”
The girl turned away from the scene below to give Hürrem her full attention. “Tell me about this heroic act.”
The lady was only too pleased to oblige. Not without cause was Hürrem known as the Scheherazade of the harem.
“The route back to Buda lay across the Danube,” she began. “Men and horses and weapons had to be carried over the wild river on pontoons that they made right there on the riverbank out of skins. Of course, our Padishah was the first to brave the raging waters.”
The girl nodded. Of course he would be. “But what about the doctor?” she asked.
Suddenly suspicious, the woman turned to look at her. “Why are you so interested in the Jewish doctor?”
Saida answered without a beat, “If this doctor has saved my father’s life, he is a hero to me and I am ever in his debt.”
Hürrem nodded, satisfied.
“Now tell me, how did he save my father’s life?” Saida asked, more casually this time.
“The Padishah’s pontoon capsized in the river. He slid into the torrent, and before anyone realized what had happened, the doctor jumped in after and held him aloft until the Janissaries pulled them both out.”
“Bravo.”
“Bravo, indeed.”
Then, being a woman who did not care overmuch for the role of the echo, Hürrem added, “Now you understand why I told you to salute the old man. But enough of him. Come.” She beckoned the girl back to the sofa. “I feel the need of refreshment.” At the snap of her fingers, the eunuch produced a gilded tray decorated with diamonds and loaded with sweets. “Taste this rahat lokum. It will give rest to your throat. The Europeans call it Turkish Delight.”
“But you aren’t having any yourself.”
“The truth is that the moment I heard the Sultan’s music, my stomach went into a convulsion. It has been so long. And the world beyond is full of women.” Reaching for Saida’s hand, she grasped it tightly. “Will he still find me pleasing?” Her touch was icy cold.
Embarrassed by the unexpected confidence, Saida cast about for a change of subject. “The doctor’s son was a pupil in the Harem School,” she heard herself saying. “I knew him when he was a boy.”
Hürrem picked up bits of information the way a beach walker collects stones. “You knew him in school?”
“A little. He was a pupil there before he became a page.”
“What’s his name?”
“It’s Italian. Danolo, I think. Maybe Danilo. I don’t remember.”
“Well, your school chum has come a long way from the Harem School. He’s now a champion at the gerit. I have heard about him from my son” — she stopped to correct herself — “from your brother, Mehmet, who thinks very highly of him.”
Saida waited for more, but Hürrem had a new distraction. The Sultan’s band had entered the Imperial Gate.
“Do you know the air they are playing?” Hürrem asked. “You should. If you had spent more time here in the palace — if we lived here — you would know such things. Now that the Sultan is back in residence, they will play every afternoon at the time of the ikindi. And everyone in the palace, from the great Padishah to the lowest toilet cleaner, will stop his work and make his third prayer to Allah. Oh, he is such a wonder!”
There was no time to clarify whether the wonder she referred to was the Sultan or Allah himself, for at this moment a quartet of mounted heralds was coming through the Imperial Gate, calling out, “Stand back, the Sultan comes!” And, as if a wand had passed over them, the entire assemblage held its collective breath and fell into a dead silence.
By retreating to the rear of the loggia and craning their necks, the two women in the tower were just able to see the victorious Sultan emerge. A tall, slender figure straight as a pike and deadly pale, he rode resplendent on a milk-white Nogai steed, wearing a triple aigrette stuck into his turban sideways in the Persian fashion.
As always in his public appearances, the Padishah proceeded slowly. His subjects needed time to capture the moment for retelling to their grandchildren. Besides, it would hardly do to have the exalted ghazi rip through the crowd shooting arrows in all directions like a wild sipahi. What was needed here was gravitas. And to assure that the Sultan’s mount would play its part in that spirit, the horse had spent the previous night — as he always did before a procession — suspended by straps to ensure that he walked with halting gravity.
Slowly, Sultan Suleiman made his way through the First Court, inclining his long neck first to the right, then to the left, acknowledging each individual bowed down before him. He disappeared briefly from view behind the twin towers of the Gate of Salutation and then reappeared in the Second Court followed by seven Arab horses in embroidered trappings set with jewels, led by seven pages as resplendently attired as the horses they led. But, gilded as they might be, they were no match for the Padishah — the ghazi himself — who held his victory out to his subjects like a lion holding his quarry in his paws, inviting them to share it.
The moment he came through the gate, Hürrem, now oblivious of her companion, walked slowly to the balustrade, straight-backed like a sleepwalker. Never taking her eyes off the slim, elegant figure on the white horse below, she reached into a small pouch that hung from her diamond girdle and withdrew from it a fine white silk handkerchief embroidered in white flowers by her own hand. And there she stood — a statue — as the Sultan made his progress through his people.
It took some time, but at last he emerged directly in front of the Diwan Tower. There he brought his mount to a halt. What followed unfolded like a tableau, the players coordinating their movements in a smooth arc as if rehearsed.
Dead-still on his mount, the Sultan slowly raised his eyes to the top of the tower. Up on the loggia, a hand lifted a delicate silk handkerchief and thrust it out through the octagonal slit in the brickwork. The Sultan’s gaze was fixed on the small white square waving languidly back and forth in the breeze. Then, with a gasp, Hürrem sank to the ground, the handkerchief waving a forlorn farewell as she pulled away from the balustrade. She had collapsed into a
faint, incontrovertible evidence of overwhelming passion.
Having accidentally encountered the world of the French romans at an impressionable age, Saida was something of an aficionado of romance. There was always a possibility that the faint might have been calculated. But the princess remained a confirmed believer in knights-errant, princesses in towers, and the primacy of true love over all. Besides, the look that transfixed the Second Kadin’s face when she first caught sight of her Sultan-lover could not have been dissembled, not even by the finest actor in the empire.
16
THE DOCTOR’S HOUSE
Mid-afternoon and not a cloud in the sky. A good augury for the next day’s gerit contest in which, Danilo reminded himself as he pegged along the Eunuch’s Path, he may now never take part. Still, he kept up his pace, determined to salvage what he could of a disastrous day. And he did manage to circumnavigate the old palace walls in record time. But would he make it to the Doctor’s House before his father? To miss the public ceremonies in the Second Court might just be excused. To fail to meet his father at his own door after a long absence might never be forgiven. Around the turn of the path, the Doctor’s House came into view, easily identified by the heraldic flag bearing the sacred snakes of Asclepius that fluttered from the roof. (The ancient god of healing was another pagan hero whom Judah had no difficulty accommodating in his pantheon.)
To reach the house, Danilo still had to surmount the exterior palace wall. If the old fruit ladder had been carelessly left behind on the palace side, he would have to scale the wall. Definitely possible (he had done it more than once) but a time-consuming climb. However, for the first time that day, Fortuna had smiled on him. There the ladder stood, propped up against the stump of the dead pear tree.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 14