The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  I take it as a sign of Allah’s grace that I have discovered a second and not unimportant use for the candidate damats’ documents. In the process of compiling their lifelong records, new details of their lives — both personal and financial — have come to light. We are now in possession of information that certain of the gifts bestowed by the Sultan, such as land, slaves, and palaces, which were earmarked to be returned to the Royal Treasury upon the death of the recipients, have mysteriously fallen into the hands of others — some of them family members — who will be under no obligation to return their gifts when the owner dies. Is there such a crime as financial treason? Yes or no, the knowledge of these concealed riches cannot but benefit your treasury. My new-found ability to wield my own pen has enabled me to convey this to you in strictest confidence.

  Much credit for my new writing skill is due to our treasure, Princess Saida, who has worked tirelessly to keep me at my reading and writing lessons and has persevered when my own will to continue flagged. Poor Saida. First, she loses her mother; then she loses the grandmother who took the mother’s place, a role that I have tried to play with incomplete success. Of course, she is always ready with expressions of gratitude for my efforts, but her heart remains cold. Perhaps I have leaned too heavily on her family obligations to the Ottoman dynasty. Perhaps I could have made a greater effort to emphasize the pleasures of womanhood — especially for a princess.

  So I have arranged an outing — just the two princesses and myself — to visit palaces that are or might be for sale along the Bosphorus waterway. When I mentioned this to Vice Admiral Lofti — with whom I met yesterday to discuss his divorce — he came to my aid with an offer of one of his small crafts (including a crew) to ferry us along the Bosphorus in the summer breeze. When I spoke of this to little Princess Mihrimah, she flushed with excitement, even though she fully understands that none of these palaces can be hers until after her sister is married and established. But Princess Saida remained unmoved.

  There is such a difference between the two princesses. Mihrimah dotes on every detail of her future life; Saida remains adrift in the past. She reads. She rides her horse. She prays. She attends to my needs faithfully by day, and at night I hear that she weeps. So different from her younger sister, who at the age of ten is already half a woman. Count on it. When the time comes for our daughter Mihrimah to marry, she will welcome it joyfully without the need of any encouragement from us. Even now she plays at selecting the names of her children and the number of her servants and slaves.

  I do not expect Princess Saida to take on the details of the wedding feast such as the public ceremony, the games at the hippodrome, the bands of musicians who will play for the people dancing in the streets. Those are the proper concerns of the mother of the bride-to-be, not the bride herself. However, I admit I would like to see an occasional flash of interest, or nod of approval, or some sign of anticipation. It is quite clear to me that if we do not take charge, this lovely daughter of ours will go to her grave a spinster and never know the pleasure of marriage to a fine damat or the joy and pride of mothering royal children. This thought has been on my mind, but I have been unwilling to express it while dictating to the very person concerned, for fear of offending her delicate feelings.

  There is something — and what that is, I have been unable to discover — that has made this girl, by nature so accommodating, stiffen into rigid opposition on the matter of her marriage. If she were simply one of the harem girls, I would have sworn she had a secret lover. But the princess lives the life of a Christian nun. And try as I may, I seem not able to bring a smile to her face at the prospect of her happy future and the life for which she is destined.

  So be prepared, my love! You may have to accompany a sad, pale wraith of a princess to her wedding ceremony. But I promise you, my adored and most revered husband, that together we will lead the sad princess to a happier state whether she is willing or not.

  Signed and stamped in wax with the Regent’s seal

  Beneath her signature, an encrypted message:

  The hot flame of true love can melt the wax that seals the message, but cannot alter what is written there.

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Ereğli

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: July 26, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  I thought Konya would be a rest stop for me. Instead, not since my days in the School for Pages have I been so occupied, morning to night. I am now a clerk — a copyist, if you like — who has spent his days in Konya hunched over his desk carefully copying the poems of Rumi, for the discerning eyes of the Sultana in Istanbul (who cannot read).

  Ever since he found me copying Rumi’s inscription, the Sultan assumes that I share his admiration — awe is a better word — for the Sufi mystic. So I have been chosen to make a selection of Rumi’s poems, translated in perfect accuracy and penmanship, to send directly to the Lady Hürrem via the Sultan’s courier. What does this portend? Think of it! Will I now spend this entire campaign as a clerk? On the other hand, I do write directly to the Lady Hürrem in Topkapi Palace. Although she herself cannot read my script, the Sultan assures me that her reader can and that the reader’s standards are high. Never could I have guessed that the product of my pen would fall into reach of such exacting hands.

  What makes this all such a mix-up is that, having banished me to this tedious task (for which I am so ill-suited), the Sultan feels that he has honored me with a place in the Society of Poets. Result? My horse is getting restive for the lack of exercise, and I long for the pleasures of the pouch.

  D.

  36

  KAYSERI

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Kayseri

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: August 2, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  In the secret book she wrote for my benefit, Mama reminded me that the hearts of the powerful are fickle and never to be depended upon. And I recall many mentions of the whimsical nature of her patroness, the Lady Isabella D’Este, flitting like a hummingbird from one caprice to another.

  But I wager, Papa, that the great Gonzaga lady has met her capricious match in my master, the Sultan.

  Since our stay in Konya, īskender the Great, the Heroic, the Cherished, has completely lost his allure. He is, alas, forgotten. Abandoned. These days we read only Rumi. And recite Rumi. And discuss Rumi. And copy Rumi for the edification of the Sultana Hürrem in far-off Istanbul, who, it seems, has a longing for his verses. Either that or she has developed an urgent need to be inspired by having his mystic visions read to her from copies made by . . . who else? Danilo del Medigo, formerly the Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter, now Danilo, the Clerk. Together with my little desk and my pens and my tablets and the library of manuscripts assembled to assist me in my scholarly struggles with bloody Arrian and bloody Plutarch, we have been stripped of all purpose. Alexander, no longer the Great, has been tossed onto the garbage heap like a worn-out cart horse. And the former Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter is employed as copier of texts — a clerk!

  The sad joke is that after weeks of travel the Sultan’s army is now following in the actual footsteps of Alexander as he made his way from the Mediterranean to the very town from which I write this letter — the town of Kayseri. After he secured the Mediterranean ports, Alexander passed this way heading north to Gordium. Now our boots are treading in his steps as we too head north. And this at the very moment the Sultan has lost all interest in him. Bad timing.

  Remember the Gordian knot, Papa? I first learned of it seated in your lap. And I had been planning to lead the Sultan up to the top of the Gordian acropolis, where I hear say you can see the ancient wooden-wheeled cart in which old Gordium traveled from Macedonia to capture Anatolia. Not only the cart but also the remains of the leather knot that held the yoke to the shaft, the famous Gordian knot.

  As we pass through the
countryside, I have seen similar rigs on the road knotted yoke-to-shaft with a leather thong. But the Gordian knot was, they say, a knot of such extraordinary complexity that no one from earliest days to the time of Alexander had been able to untie it. Because of this, the knot carried a prophecy that whoever succeeded in finding the hidden ends and unraveling them would become ruler of all Asia.

  To Alexander, that must have made the challenge irresistible. To me, it seemed like a tale made to order for the Sultan. Never one to grab onto a moment of high drama if he could avoid it, Arrian simply tells us that Alexander reached in and pulled out the pin that held the thing together. After centuries? Really? But Curtius gave me a conclusion I recognized at once to be more to the Sultan’s taste.

  According to Curtius’ version, Alexander began, as had hundreds of men before him, by studying the knot from every angle. Like them, he stood there for some minutes, baffled. There had to be a way. Suddenly, it came to him.

  “Nobody said how it had to be untied,” he was heard to mutter by those close to him. And, with that, he drew out his sword and hacked open the knot with his blade to reveal the ends of it deep inside. Voila!

  So confident was I that this tale would delight the Sultan, I even undertook to make my own translation of the event from Quintus Curtius’ History of Alexander. Sad to say, by the time my translation was done, the Sultan had no time for my scholarly efforts or for the Gordian excursion. From the moment of our arrival in Kayseri, he was deep into horse dealing with the merchants of the town, a hard-headed bunch known in these parts for sharp business practices. Kayseri has passed through many hands under various names since its early days as a Hittite capital. Romans, Persians, Byzantines, Mongols, Crusaders, and the dreaded Tamerlane have all laid their heavy hands on Kayseri, leaving it, Papa, a mess of dye works, tanneries, and slaughterhouses, and ringed by herds of sheep and water buffalo raised for the sausage and pastirma industries. The town is one long smoked-meat banquet. Also, they use the hides of these animals to make the most amazing yellow Morocco leather slippers. And I confess that I gave in to the lure of fashion and indulged myself in a purchase of the same.

  No question, trade is the lifeblood of this town and stories abound. A favorite is the tale — told with relish by the locals — of the man who stole a donkey, painted it brown, and then sold it back to its owner. And Ahmed Pasha has reported to me the newest variation of this tale in which the merchant now abducts his mother, paints her up, and sells her back to his father.

  You can still hear versions of this story being told over teacups in the stalls of the Kayseri bazaar, just as various tales of īskender’s miraculous splitting of the Gordian knot are spun into the smoke of bubble pipes in Gordium. What does that tell you about the people who have handed down these tales over generations? What kind of people would find getting the best in a horse trade a more compelling subject to preserve for their heirs than the conquest of Asia? And what does it tell you about those — like ourselves — who choose to make their way to Aleppo by way of Kayseri rather than Gordium? We did have a choice of route. It is not by accident that we find ourselves stuck here bargaining for horses and being treated no better than if we were cattle thieves. But I console myself with knowing that there will be wonderful sights to see in Syria, and I will have a chance to sail to Babylon on the most famous river in the world — the Euphrates. And, who knows? Perhaps īskender will rise like Lazarus from the Mesopotamian ashes once we get to Iraq. At least I am seeing the world. For which opportunity I thank you, Papa.

  Your grateful son,

  D.

  From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  To: Sultan Suleiman en route, received at Kayseri

  Date: July 28, 1534

  My fortune-favored Sultan:

  The Rumi poem that your translator sent to me fell upon me like rose petals from heaven. It was a joy multiplied by a hundred when my faithful reader, Princess Saida, sat with us to read out the words. But — and this may be a reflection on my own lack of education in poetics — I prefer your poems to his and I long for just a few lines in the hand.

  My Sultan of Love, Muhabbi: I live out these long days of separation tortured by longing and racked by dreams of the perils that threaten my warrior husband; not least the knowledge, shared by all women, that the campaign trail is littered with evil women only too eager to offer their charms to lonely soldiers far from home. Women know that for men, loving memories begin to fade as with distance.

  Having written that, I fear my demands for reassurance of your love have made me unworthy of the great honor you have bestowed on me by making me your Sultana. As Saida reminded me while scolding me for my tardiness at my language lessons, it is all very well for a kadin to weep and wail for an absent loved one, but a Sultana must bear up to her fears and loneliness as befits her elevated station.

  My heart jumps in my bosom when I think of your return. Pray Allah, it be soon. If only I could fly to you across the heavens just for an hour as they do in The Thousand and One Nights. But I must take comfort in knowing that when the day of victory arrives, my small sacrifice will have been a part of the great effort to vanquish the Shiite heretics for the glory of the true Sunni faith.

  My Sultan, your sons and daughters pray daily that Allah watches over you and protects you from all harm as you pursue your holy jihad.

  Signed, stamped, and sealed by her Regent.

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

  Is it true of all soldiers far from home that loving memories begin to fade as the miles and months slip by?

  37

  SIVAS

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Sivas

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: August 9, 1534

  Hi, ho, dear Papa:

  We are rolling up Anatolia without a shot being fired. But the life of the jihad is a life of surprises, and we are not on our way to Syria as expected. Instead we are riding north to join up with the Grand Vizier’s forces at Tabriz.

  This decision to detour north through Azerbaijan was handed down to us without expectation two days ago by the Sultan. But who am I to complain? Even though we seem to be headed in the wrong direction to reach our eventual destination (unless that objective has also been changed while I slept), we are bound to see the two great rivers of antiquity someday soon since Baghdad lies between them.

  There is a rumor circulating in our camp that the reason for this change of route is a quarrel that has broken out in Tabriz between the Grand Vizier Ibrahim and his Janissary brigade, which necessitates the intervention of the Sultan. It is whispered that the Janissaries attached to the Grand Vizier’s forces are on the verge of overturning their kettles. The fact is the Grand Vizier’s half of the army has not seen their Padishah for many months, and many will be refusing to march into Persia without their true ghazi leader. Since Ibrahim Pasha is not well liked, one must take this tale with a grain of salt.

  Others have a different explanation for the change of route. They say that the season is now too advanced for river travel and that currents of the Tigris are now too treacherous for barge transport. Mind you, this new alternate route to Baghdad, via Azerbaijan and across the Zagros Mountains, is reputedly perilous in its own way. But that is the route we are about to take if we proceed by way of Tabriz.

  Whatever the reason for it, I tell you that this change in our route of march is mightily vexing to the Sultan. Tonight, just as I started my reading of Rumi, a messenger arrived all red-faced and sweaty with a packet from the Grand Vizier at Tabriz. I recognized his seal. The Sultan did not appear delighted with the contents of the package. He spent some time shuffling through the papers in the packet, shaking his head and muttering. Then suddenly he hurled the entire package across the tent with a mighty thrust, and we were enveloped in a storm of pa
per.

  Of course, a group of pages materialized instantly to clean up the mess. The boys are still picking up sheets of paper as I write. Perhaps they are accustomed to these outbursts, but I have been at this man’s side day and night for two months now and have never seen him like this. When one of the pages offered him a sip of sherbet to settle him down, he bashed the cup out of the fellow’s hand with such force he all but knocked him down. At that moment, Papa, I wished you had been there to administer your calming-down medicine. But all I could do was to cower in a corner in the hope of dodging flying objects. And, to be sure, as the minutes ticked by, the Sultan ceased to shake and mutter and finally began to read aloud from one of the dispatches — to me, of all people.

  “The contract to deliver two thousand desert camels to the Ottoman high command at Aleppo has been voided,” he read and sighed. “Attached is a new contract for two thousand mountain camels to be delivered at Tabriz.” Then, without taking a breath, he waggled his finger under my nose and demanded, “Do you know how far a camel can travel in a day?”

  He did not expect an answer and I did not give one.

  “Twenty-five miles on average in good weather,” he said. “Do you know how many miles it is across the Syrian Desert to Mesopotamia from where we now stand?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Four hundred miles,” he answered his own question. “And how many miles do you suppose my army must march to join the Grand Vizier’s forces at Tabriz in order to approach Baghdad from the east by way of Persia instead of Syria?” He paused a moment for effect. “Five hundred miles. Which amounts to an additional four days’ march,” he advised me. “And can you guess how much it costs to rent just one camel for a single day of march?”