Next surprise — the liberality of the commissary. Even in this parched land, where water is often as valuable as gold, I saw full cauldrons of water standing ready for the cooks. And water for handwashing after visits to the latrine. Of course, these troops are all Muslims, and it is against their religion to use paper to wipe their asses. I remember one of my first days in the Princes School being told that it would be indecent to put paper to such a use because paper is what the name of God is written on. I also recall noticing that same day that the boys removed their turbans before pissing and then kissed them as they put them back on because the head covering is a mark of devotion to Allah. As the French say, quel delicatesse!
Certainly, I was not surprised when I joined the Sultan’s entourage to find serenity and cleanliness and a full larder and plentiful washing-up water because he is, after all, the Sultan. But to find handwashing water provided for whole companies of soldiers in the field — that shook my mind.
Of course I did not speed by the Janissary camp as I had planned to do but dismounted and walked about through the tented streets, which led to a long string of kiosks and sheds peopled by saddlers and bow-makers, coppersmiths and tinsmiths, barbers and cobblers and slipper-makers, sword smiths and tent-pole carvers, and a great number of food sellers. A fraternity of guild members set up a bazaar at each stop as they did at Elmadağ and will continue to do at every stop.
My time in the Janissary compound was truly like a pleasant visit to a busy marketplace, and I was loath to move on. But if I were to take as much time at each encampment as I did with the Janissaries, I would never reach the end of the line, or the end of this letter.
So I quickly proceeded to the next compound — the clerks and clerics of the divan. I knew that the entire council and their clerks and scribes were traveling with us and would be meeting regularly as they do at Topkapi. But five minutes in their environs — street after street of colored tents and what seemed like hundreds of people trudging back and forth among them with sheaves of paper in their hands — gave me a new sense of the scope of this enterprise. And I suddenly remembered one time at dinner in our house hearing the Venetian bailo comment with disdain that the seat of the Ottoman Empire is wherever the Sultan chooses to pitch his tent. At the time, I took this to be no more than a sneer at the Osman family’s lowly origins. But today I saw with my own eyes that the Sultan is literally the center of his empire and that wherever he moves, the government moves with him, including every last ducat of his vast treasury.
Of course, keeping an eye on the treasury could be taken as concern for the threat of the pilferage and thievery that might ensue during the Sultan’s long absences from his capital. After all, the Holy Roman emperor still lies in wait for us some hundreds of miles to the west. But granting the need to secure the treasury, what possible reason can there be to drag over mountains and through deserts every single member of the divan together with his clerks, his secretaries, his porters, and household staff so that they can meet each week, just as they do at Topkapi, to hear petitions and draft new laws or rub out old ones? I conclude that by placing himself at the center of this movable city, the Sultan becomes the literal personification of the empire as it moves out on campaign. With all aspects of government literally under his eye, there is no empire without him. The Venetian bailo is thus much cleverer than he knows. The seat of Ottoman power is indeed wherever the Sultan pitches his tent.
After the divan compound, I moved on through the several kitchens that serve different constituencies, past the sheep-slaughtering community that also tans hides (hold your nose!), and into the domain of the treasury, which is overseen, I found, by a Grand Chancellor who travels with two hundred slaves and an even greater number of huge oak chests, each one bound by seven metal straps and secured with three locks. At the stops these chests occupy six large tents (almost as many as the Sultan has). And together, they carry the entire treasure of the empire, to be at the instant disposal of the Sultan wherever he may travel.
At the rate I was going, I would be lucky to reach the end of the line before nightfall, I thought. But when I came to the hospital tent I simply had to go in and find out what kind of medicine is practiced within its quarter-mile circumference.
The answer is, they take care of every medical problem from boils to stab wounds. This early in the campaign, the place was almost completely empty of patients, but it seems there is always suffering going on of some kind or another. And I did see two teeth being pulled, a few bones being set, and a baby delivered to a whore. Did the women deliberately join the campaign, I wondered, knowing that in this finely equipped place they would receive the kind of care rarely available to their sort? (Not until I reached the end of the line did I discover the community of wives and whores. So I now know why they are called camp-followers. They follow the camp!)
Last medical note. As I was leaving the hospital I noticed a quite small, unidentified tent in red canvas that seemed to be attached to it. Poking my head in to inquire what sort of business was done here, I was informed, in the most casual manner, that I had entered the abortionist’s tent. To be sure, no possible need has been neglected.
To put your mind at ease, Papa, I did not, on this occasion, tarry in the neighborhood of the camp followers. By the time I got to them, darkness had fallen and I barely had time to ride my horse back to the Sultan’s compound before the stables were locked up for the night. But I went to sleep resolved to awaken early and give myself plenty of time to visit what lay ahead of me up the line — the artillerymen, the musicians, and our neighbors, the famous Ottoman sipahis, the very mention of whom sets the hearts of Europeans to tremble with fear.
D.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Elmadağ
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
June 18, 1534
Dear Papa:
Last night when I returned from my ride through the rear half of the camp, I begged you to keep this document as a record for my children. Until now, all I knew of the Ottoman style of campaigning was that the Padishah took my father from me for seven months every year and that he always returned home victorious, the Ottoman army having added a new territory or country to the empire.
At dawn I could hardly wait to complete my survey — the forward half of the line. So I started off early, determined to visit each unit of the encampment. So much for plans. It is now high noon and I am back at my trunk-desk, confused, saddened, and bereft of any sense of decency, much less nobility, in this enterprise.
I cantered into the encampment of the sipahis hoping to catch them at drill, even to pick up some tricks of horsemanship, at which, you know, they are the masters. Like all the other boys of Istanbul, I have watched them performing in victory parades. And, like the others, I am in awe of their strength, their courage, and their prodigious skill; and dazzled by the flourish of their leopard-skin cloaks as they shoot off their arrows twenty a minute while facing backward and hitting the brass target every time. I could practice for a thousand years and never achieve that mastery. It has to be in the blood.
Naively, I had hoped to strike up a conversation about horses with one of them. But nature called so I tethered my horse and made my way on foot to the latrine ditch that edges these encampments. And that is where I encountered a sight that will haunt me forever: a lone tree, shorn of branches to resemble a gibbet, and swaying from it in the breeze, a sipahi in full uniform, with a stump leaking blood where one of his hands used to be. All this behind the tidy tents in the bright sun while his comrades went on about their business of pissing and shitting as if nothing unusual was happening.
What heinous crime could he have committed?
As I made my way slowly back to my horse, I dimly remember asking a passerby what the man had done. But there is no dimness in my recall of the answer.
“He stole a chicken,” I was advised, in an even, casual tone that made the hairs on my ne
ck bristle.
That statement, the flatness of it, killed whatever was left of my taste for adventuring, and I walked my horse back to the Sultan’s compound unable to stop my tears. This man was not some street criminal. This man was a member of the Sultan’s valued cavalry. His loyalty and his bravery had passed all the tests. Is this the price we pay for peace and cleanliness? And, if so, is it worth the cost?
At home, when I come up against such puzzles, I can turn to you, Papa. Or to Bucephalus, who is very wise for a horse. But this new mount assigned to me by the Sultan is no Bucephalus, despite being younger and faster. I did try to talk to him, but conversation makes him impatient. He prefers carrots.
So I hiked back to my cot and was again found by Ahmed with my face turned to the wall. Of course, he wanted to know what I had seen that day, and in a fit of candor, I told him. Now comes the reason why I am telling you this story, Papa. He agreed that the punishment was cruel. But he said the crime was very serious.
“Stealing a chicken?”
“The fellow is lucky it’s a first offense. Otherwise the penalty is both hands.”
“For stealing a chicken?”
“For entering private property in the uniform of the Sultan and violating the rights of one of the Sultan’s flocks.”
“But the peasants here are all Greeks and Christians,” I reminded him.
“All the more reason why not one of the Sultan’s citizens can be treated with less justice than any other,” he explained. Then with a smile, “Even Jews. Have you noticed that, wherever we go in Anatolia, we are greeted with smiles and flowers?”
I certainly had.
“That is because a hundred years ago when the sipahis were still march warriors, they took these lands from the Byzantines with a vow of equal justice for all people. Every member of the Sultan’s flock, whatever his race, is entitled to Turkish justice. No looting or pillage is tolerated. Thus the empire has earned the loyalty of its subjects. And we can boast of bringing civil order to all the lands we conquer. Now ask yourself, is the loss of a hand or even a life not worth the price?”
That answer, Papa, told me that I must curb my habit of making judgments before I understand all the circumstances. And that some disappointments turn out for the best. Had I not been left behind from the hunt today, I would not have learned these things. But, that said, Papa, I beg you to reconsider your conditions just a fraction. I am not asking you to allow me to fight in a battle. Just to have a little fun with my horse and my gerit.
Your grateful and loving son,
D.
31
ESKIŞEHIR
From: Danilo del Medigo at Eskişehir
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: June 25, 1534
Dear Papa:
Thank you from my heart for the timely arrival of your Plutarch manuscript. The moment I looked into the manuscript, I knew where my mother got her tale of Alexander’s foot race around Achilles’ tomb. Needless to say, the Sultan still believes that the race was a dance. And who am I to spoil his pleasure?
I began reading to the Sultan from the Troy section of Plutarch’s manuscript the day it arrived, and as you so cleverly foresaw our pursuit of the adventures of īskender has taken on a new life. This Plutarch really knows how to tell a story. The Sultan is lapping him up like cream.
By the way, I haven’t yet told him that some of what I am now reading to him is not by Arrian but by Plutarch. Listening to him, the Sultan no longer falls asleep on me but urges me on to just one more page. Also, my task is easier as I am much more at home in Latin than I am in Greek.
I now spend every evening at the Sultan’s side, reading to him. Once begun, it took no time to establish our routine. He is very methodical. Each morning, I am handed a list of selected events described in our traveling library and I am expected to appear at his tent after sundown prepared to translate any one of them. I now have my own groom — imagine! — who, while we are on the march, follows me in a small cart which carries our book depository. I need only suggest a manuscript, and a messenger is dispatched instantly to Istanbul to fetch it. Only one proviso: the book must relate in some way to Alexander the Great, whom I am slowly learning to call īskender.
Some nights after I have finished my reading, the Sultan talks to me often about īskender, who visits him in dreams. He sees many parallels between īskender and himself, and so do I. Both became great kings at a very young age. Both set out to conquer the all-powerful Persian Empire. Both have a deep attachment to a boon companion. Plutarch says that Alexander went wild with grief when Hephaestion died. When I related this I saw tears in the Sultan’s eyes. Although he has never spoken the name Ibrahim to me, I sense that he thinks often of his boyhood companion, now his Grand Vizier and boon companion. Here in the camp, the pages tease me that, as I have taken Ibrahim’s place as the nightly reader, I will soon take his place in the royal bed. This is jealousy talking. How could I, a mere boy with little to recommend me other than my meager skills as a translator, even begin to replace the Sultan’s closest advisor and oldest friend? The idea is laughable.
To me, the explanation of my current preferment is simple. The Sultan deeply misses his friend and confidante, likely the only being in the world besides his mother whom he can trust absolutely. Lucky for me, I come to him with the mark of trustworthiness stamped on me by you, dear Papa, who has served this Sultan so well and so discreetly.
It helps, I think, that I am a Jew. The Sultan’s people worship him like a god, but they do not understand him. We Jews are not slaves as are those of his pages who are educated in the seraglio. People of our race have a long history of honorable dealings with the Ottomans — Jewish merchants as well as Jewish doctors.
Just when I thought I had failed completely, you rescued me with Plutarch. I am in your debt, but I am also pressed for time.
My gratitude and my love to you,
D.
From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
To: Suleiman the Great en route, received at Eskişehir
Date: June 23, 1534
My Beloved Sultan:
I ask you, I beg you — send news very quickly that all is well with you. Because I have received no letters from you — I swear it — since your departure more than ten days ago. Do not think that it is on my own account that I am begging for words of your progress through Anatolia. The whole world is clamoring for news.
All here are in good health, albeit worn with worry. Just a few words in your hand would ease our pain and bring joy to all.
Your son, Mehmet, your daughters, Mihrimah and Saida, and the princes, Selim and Abdullah, send you many greetings and rub their faces in the dust at your feet.
Signed in her own hand,
The Sultana Hürrem
(Unsealed and resealed for enclosure in the courier’s pouch.)
At the bottom of this letter is an encrypted message. A quick pass over the page with a lighted taper reveals the words:
Longing and pain would be eased to hear that the magic messages survive the miles.
From: Sultan Suleiman encamped at Eskişehir
To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
Date: June 26, 1534
Not for all the world would I cause you to shed a single tear. Steps have been taken to hasten the courier’s speed in the future.
This poem is a token of my apology to ease your heart’s pain, composed in a dark night of longing:
I am the Sultan of Love.
A glass of wine will do for a crown on my head
and the brigade of my sighs might well serve
as the dragon’s fire-breathing troops.
The bedroom that is best for you, my love, is a bed of roses.
For me, a bed and pillow carved out of rock will do.
The heart can no longer rea
ch the district where you live
but it yearns for reunion with you.
Signed by Suleiman with his pen name, Muhabbi, the Sultan of Love.
At the bottom of this letter is an encrypted message. A quick pass over the page with a lighted taper reveals the words:
The taper lights the way over the miles, brightening the days of Sultan and page. Write on!
32
KÜTAHYA
From: Danilo del Medigo at Kütahya
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: June 30, 1534
Honored Papa:
The Sultan turns out to be just as much a victim of women’s whims as any other man. A tear-stained letter crying over the length of time it takes for his letters to reach his Sultana is all it took to raise his ire.
Let me tell you how this happened. After some days of riding — it is hard to keep track — a courier met us at the town of Kütahya bearing a letter in his pouch that sent the Sultan into a fit of rage. I recognized the identity of the sender, actually smelled it, before I even saw it. Sultana Hürrem doses her correspondence with a powerful tincture that perfumes the entire room when it emerges from its wrapping.
This time, whatever she had to report made him furious. Probably you can still remember that cold, piercing stare of his, the one that threatens to freeze you in your tracks. Believe me, Papa, even the fearless Janissaries were shaking in their boots when they came to get me. And all because of a delayed mail delivery. By the time I was called in, the Sultan’s face had assumed its normal pallor. But the fearless Janissaries were still trembling.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 25