The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  In an effort to be of help, I offered my assistance in speeding up the courier service. So now I am not only the Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter, I am also Page of the Pouch, Keeper of Sultan’s Correspondence, and a full member of the Fourth Oda.

  My duties require me to operate a one-man express post to and from the closest courier stop. Normally the Sultan waits for the courier to arrive at our camp to dispatch his letters, given that our caravan proceeds at the pace of a snail. But a fast gallop from our camp to the next courier stop will give the Sultan’s personal mail a good day’s lead on its way to the capital over any mail that dawdled along with him personally. It also provides me with the daily gallop that I so missed when I was being carted along the route with my library like an old man. No offense, Papa.

  Starting the day after my appointment, I collected a letter the Sultan had written in his own hand the morning before we left camp and carried it veloce, veloce to the next stop for the courier to take to the capital.

  My orders were to seek out a waiting courier bearing mail from the other direction and to exchange pouches with him. I am also given keys to both pouches with instructions to open the arriving pouch and sort the mail into two piles: official and personal. The official pack I am to pass on to the Chief Clerk when I arrive back at the camp. But first I must be sure to bring the Sultan’s personal mail to him the very moment he dismounts from the day’s march. So far, that completes the duty roster of the Page of the Pouch. But I am happy to report that my new title has already gained me the respect of the Fourth Oda. They now call me Pouch instead of Jew.

  And here is a list of the gifts received when I was elevated to the Fourth Oda.

  An embroidered caftan lined with miniver

  A silver inkstand set with jewels

  A tambourine studded with five rubies

  A sable kalpak hat to keep my ears warm in Kurdistan, if we ever get there.

  Another happy result. Being the Page of the Pouch, I can send off my letters to you in the Sultan’s bundle without asking anybody’s permission. And, as a kind of bonus, my daily rides through the olive plantations and the fig orchards are leading me along the very path that Alexander took on his famous ride through Anatolia to face the Persians.

  My current routine is the rough equivalent of riding a twenty-mile race every day before my evening readings. They clock me and record me daily. And when I exceed my own record, the Sultan himself congratulates me. But do not fear that my success as the Pouch Page has given me a swelled head. I am aware that neither my excellent work nor my innate virtue has won me this unheard-of advancement. I just happen to be the fastest rider in the oda. I know you would have preferred for me to make my mark through scholarship rather than horsemanship. But, Papa, is it not better to become a somebody — no matter the means — than be a nobody?

  Lest you be concerned that I might be in danger from the bloodthirsty villains who run roughshod over the Anatolian steppes, worry not. The Sultan is a man of his word and I do not carry a weapon. But I am accompanied by an armed guard of terrifying ferocity. Remember, I am carrying the Imperial Pouch.

  Also let me assure you that you will keep hearing from me regularly as I promised. Maybe not every single week, but certainly every time we stay in one place for more than one night. Our next long stopover is Konya. I am told it is the holiest place in Turkey. Not much chance of getting into trouble and plenty of time to write letters.

  Until then, you are in my prayers.

  Your affectionate son,

  Danilo

  33

  AFYON

  From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  To: Suleiman the Great en route, received at Afyon

  Date: July 5, 1534

  My Sultan,

  When your letter via the speedy new courier was read aloud by your esteemed daughter, the Princess Saida, it brought tears to all.

  We have, in the princess, a treasure. Ever modest, she blushes as she writes my words. How sad that the Lady Hafsa, who imbued her granddaughter with such an array of virtues, will not be with us to dance at her wedding — soon to come, God willing. Again, the princess blushes, my lovely, modest daughter.

  Each week, I lay aside for her the finest silks from Bursa and the best linens that I am able to unearth with the help of my bundle-woman, so that when you return, all will be in readiness to announce her wedding. This wedding, soon to come, would have been the crowning moment of the Valide’s guardianship of her fortune-favored granddaughter. Now the time has almost passed for the girl to become the woman she was meant to be.

  As she writes these words the reluctant virgin flushes with embarrassment. But I insist that it is not fitting for her to live alone in her grandmother’s quarters with no one for company other than the women of the harem, the fat slave she inherited from her grandmother, and her horse. Her respect for her grandmother’s memory is admirable, but I believe that the beloved Valide — God rest her soul — would agree with me that it is not proper for a young girl to be locked up in the Old Palace with a full suite of attendants like a married woman. And at the end of each day, when her servant arrives to take her home, I think of the gloom of her solitary life with no family to turn to for comfort or guidance, no games or amusements, only the books piled up by her bedside.

  It is literally true that her closest companion is her horse, which, I am told, she visits every day to feed and talk to. Surely it is time for her to take her place with her brothers and sister, and prepare herself to marry the damat of her father’s choice.

  I worry about her. She waves away my concerns, but as I have made clear to her, I fear that she may become one of those maidens who develops an abnormal attachment to their virginity if they do not marry at an early age.

  So far I have not persuaded her to abandon her grandmother’s cold and lonely apartments and move in with us at Topkapi Palace, where she will find warmth, welcome, companionship, and a garden of delight.

  She dutifully records my words with her pen, but I can tell that they do not reach into her heart. Not yet. But perhaps with time. Let us pray.

  May God protect you, my Sultan; may you undertake many jihads, capture many lands, conquer the seven seas, and come home safe.

  Signed and stamped with the Regent’s seal by Sultana Hürrem.

  At the bottom of this letter is an encrypted message. A quick pass over the page with a lighted taper reveals the words:

  For some, Topkapi Palace is a garden of delights. For others, it is a golden cage in which one serves a life sentence with no prospect of escape.

  34

  KONYA

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Konya

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: July 20, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  You must come to Konya if only to see the most amazing little tower ever. I came upon it quite unexpectedly just as we rounded the bend on the road from the north. And honestly, Papa, it all but knocked me off my horse.

  At first what I saw was just a splash of color in the sky. As we drew closer into the town, it took the form of a dome set on a round base and tucked into the skyline like a faceted jewel. I say jewel because the entire structure is clad from top to bottom in tiles of a single color, a light bluish-green, fresher than the waters of the Adriatic and softer than the vault of heaven. These tiles must be the finest things that Iznik has ever produced.

  On the approach to Konya, this gorgeous little thing acts upon the traveler as do the minarets of Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, beckoning him ever closer into the center of the town. And when our caravan stopped at the tower to pay homage, I recognized it to be a tomb. Close up I could see that the entire structure is divided into sixteen lobes that come together at the apex like the sections of an orange. The base and the dome are divided from each other by a band of calligraphy that spells out (I
have since learned), In the name of Allah, the compassionate and the meaningful. As I recall, this is the phrase that begins each book of the Koran. I am told that this dome rises directly over the shrine of Jalal al-din Rumi, the Sufi mystic whom the Ottomans call the Mevlana.

  Konya is indeed a pious town. A man can get beaten up here for smoking in the street! I shudder to think what they do to women who displease them. The place is full of pilgrims come to pay homage to the Mevlana. In spite of your repeated counsel against making hasty judgments, I quickly leapt to the conclusion that I was in for three boring and friendless days while my fellow pages devoted themselves to their Sufi rituals.

  Until this week, I had barely heard of this Rumi. Then, the night before we reached Konya, as I was taking leave of the Sultan, he inquired if I had read any of the Mevlana’s poems. And when I replied no, he went rummaging into a trunk for a small volume that he pressed into my hand.

  “These are a few of the many poems left to us by Rumi. He lived and preached and wrote in Konya three centuries ago and is buried here. He is what a Christian might call the patron saint of our family,” he told me.

  That is when I found out that the little turquoise tower I fell in love with was this Rumi’s shrine.

  “Please understand that this is not in any way an attempt to convert you,” the Sultan continued. “I have too much respect for your father’s wishes to do that. But I thought you might enjoy the poetry.”

  Well, Papa, you know how it is with poetry and me. When I was forced to commit the Sultan’s own poems to memory in the School for Pages, it was like swallowing mouthfuls of aloes. Of course I accepted the book graciously and thanked him profusely. And I thought that would be the end for me of Rumi’s poetry.

  But the next day, after walking my feet off among the monuments of Konya, I found myself leafing idly through the pages of the little book the Sultan had given me. And the occasional phrase did catch my eye. Then, partly in the Sultan’s honor and partly because I had had a bellyful of Arrian, I wandered over to Rumi’s tomb.

  You know me, Papa. The combination of mystical poetry and Koranic quotations is not exactly my idea of a good time. Needless to say, I was hardly in a worshipful state of mind as I stood at the entrance to Rumi’s tomb. Of course, I was careful to stop at the fountain in the courtyard to wash my hands and feet. And I did leave my boots at the door. Wouldn’t want to get stoned to death.

  The first thing to strike my eye was the inscription of four lines on the wall of the antechamber:

  Come, come, whoever you are,

  Whether you be fire worshipers, idolaters or pagans.

  Ours is not a dwelling place of despair.

  All who enter will receive a welcome here.

  Is that not a remarkable message to put on a grave? I was taken enough with it to make a copy for you. And that is how the Sultan found me when he arrived to pray. Copying Rumi. It is hard to tell with him, but he must have been pleased because he invited me to accompany his party that evening to the semahane, where the Sufis were to perform a sema in his honor.

  Ahmed Pasha tells me that the Ottomans have embraced the Sufis since they first converted to Islam and that the hall in which the sema ceremony took place was built by Suleiman’s grandfather, Bayezid. Also, the fountain at which I had washed my feet was a gift from the Sultan’s father, Selim the Grim. I guess that if I was going to wash my feet for anyone, I picked the right saint.

  Of course, I had heard stories of the whirling dervishes of Konya who make their observances by spinning around until they collapse into a trance. So that evening I fully expected to witness some kind of wild dance in which the Sufis whirl into a frenzy, then fall about foaming at the mouth. But it is not like that at all, Papa. The ceremony takes place on a circular platform surrounded by a balustrade in the shadow of the Mevlana’s tomb. The Sufis enter quietly, all cloaked in black, their heads covered in high camel-colored hats. I am told that the cloak represents a tomb and the hat a tombstone, and everything that follows is also fraught with special meanings.

  After passing twice before the Sultan with solemn reverence, the Sufis slowly shed their cloaks, revealing the long white skirts meant to symbolize shrouds that whirl slowly around them as they twirl. This garment marks their escape from the tomb and from all worldly cares. While this was happening, the Sultan remained standing, as did all of his party, with their hands folded over their stomachs.

  Then came the music of the ney flute, a heart-rending wail that expresses a longing for the attainment of the Ultimate. It has to be the saddest instrument in the world. The Sufis say it is the sound of the reed longing for its home in the riverbed. I noticed that some members of our party were moved to tears by its melancholy.

  Then came the Music of the Spheres, which transforms the dancers into heavenly bodies. It is all very stately. Very slow at first. As they turn, they repeat a chant in a whisper while the musicians sing a hymn. Then faster and faster they twirl. But in perfect control. At the end, the head of the order joins the dancers and twirls with them. Their purpose, they say, is to affect a union with God. And I swear, Papa, despite my deep-down reservations, I thought the leader was going to rise to heaven and fly away.

  Tomorrow we take off for the north, and I resume my proper duties as Page of the Pouch. I will always thank you for giving me this chance to see the great world.

  D.

  From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  To: Sultan the Great en route, received at Konya

  Date: July 17, 1534

  My esteemed Sultan:

  When you first named me as Regent in your absence I took it to be an honorary post — greet visitors, sign documents, and the like. Who knew that it would fall upon me to investigate each candidate for the hand of our daughter? Or that this would entail the compilation of several lengthy curricula vitae? Or that this would be a task requiring skill and discretion beyond the competence of my current staff?

  I believe that the best place to recruit the talents I now require would be among your eunuchs, pages, or clerks. I am told that your Men in Black are well trained for just such tasks. Is it possible that a pair of them could be spared to come to my assistance in investigating these candidates? I leave the choice to you, honored Sultan. Then what remains is for you, my lord, to instruct your treasury officers to set up a line in my household budget for this new security detail.

  I await word of your approval and pray every day for the strength to carry this unexpected load of responsibility.

  Signed and sealed with the Regent’s tugra.

  At the bottom of this letter is an encrypted message. A quick pass over the page with a lighted taper reveals the words:

  Three suitors came this week to look at the bride — one judge, one admiral, and a high priest of the Ulema. All old. All grey. All fat. Whichever the Sultan prefers will be his daughter’s choice. Does it matter?

  From: Sultan Suleiman encamped at Konya

  To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  Date: July 22, 1534

  How could I have known when I fell into the deep pools of your eyes that I would find in you such a helpmate? As of this day, my order to add two of my Men in Black to your staff is now an official part of your household budget. Would that I could lessen your burden, but sadly there is no one else in the world in whom I can place my entire trust.

  Duty calls and your poet, Muhabbi the lover, suffers. Since Rumi is a great comfort to me in these days of separation and loneliness, I hope his words will speak for me until time permits Muhabbi to make his own poems once more. Meanwhile here is a ghazal by Rumi translated for you by my Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter.

  My worst habit is I get so tired of winter.

  I become a torture to those I’m with.

  If you are not here nothing grows.

  I lack clarity. My words


  tangle and knot up.

  How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.

  How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.

  Signed 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:

  As the page’s pen speaks for the poet, so the poet’s pen speaks for the page.

  35

  EREĞLI

  From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  To: Sultan Suleiman en route, received in Ereğli

  Date: July 21, 1534

  My Sultan,

  You wrote me once that if I were able to read what you wrote, you would write at greater length of your longing for me. That time has at last arrived. Today, I have given our beloved Princess Saida notice that from now on I will undertake to deal with intimate or private matters in direct discourse with you, my beloved, without the intervention of a third person. Under the princess’s tutoring I have learned the fine style, and due to her efforts I now feel confident to express myself to you without embarrassment. Of course, I will continue to call upon the princess in her official role as secretary to the Regent, but at least this lightens her burden. For years she has toiled to teach me, and now she will get her reward — whatever her heart desires as her gift from me on her wedding day. She need only name it and it is hers.

  She blushes. But it is time she had some relief from her constant service to me and is free to step forward into her own life as a wife and mother.

  It gives me great pleasure to report to you that the employment of my new security secretaries has succeeded beyond our expectations. The two Men in Black that you assigned me have come forth so speedily with such complete dossiers that I was able to cull my original list of candidates for Princess Saida’s hand to one judge, one high priest of the Ulema, and one admiral, each with a record of long and loyal service to you. The final choice is, of course, yours, to be made public when you return (may Allah make that soon).