“No, sir,” I managed to answer.
“Of course you can’t. It is not your business to know. Nor is it mine. I have advisors for that. And they advise me the extra hundred miles will cost my treasury one hundred silver rupees per load in the local currency. But that is a mere drop in the ocean of expense that this new plan will cost.” A deep sigh at the prospect and a dismal shake of the turban.
For a brief moment, I thought he might weep. But he is not the Sultan for nothing. Instead, he took a deep breath, seated himself cross-legged and straight-backed on his cushions, and began what seemed like a new subject.
“These Europeans know nothing of war. Nothing.” It was not an accusation, simply a statement somehow connected with the cost of camels. “They call my empire the Gunpowder Empire. Because my revered ancestor, Mehmet the Conqueror, managed to bring Constantinople to its knees with a cannonade, they take the view that all we know how to do is blow things up. The truth is, we were not the inventors of gunpowder. The Chinese were the first to use it. But it was my ancestors who divined that the mixture of sulfur, carbon, and saltpeter could be put to a more useful purpose than making fireworks for festivals. Such as blowing holes in city walls. Even so, it takes more than an explosion to win a war. And let me tell you, boy, gunpowder is a most unreliable weapon. If you allow it to get wet — even damp — it won’t light. And how are you supposed to keep it dry when you’re carrying it over rivers on barges? Answer me that.”
I thought it best to keep my thoughts to myself.
“Besides,” he went on, “even if, with luck and good weather, you manage to keep your powder dry, field guns can shoot a maximum distance of only three hundred yards, and at that distance they can barely hit a barn. Compared to an arrow, gunpowder is a crude weapon. Don’t talk to me about gunpowder.”
Not that I would have dared. There seem to be a hundred ways in which gunpowder has disappointed the Sultan personally.
“If gunpowder were the only weapon in our arsenal, do you think we would now be masters in Tunis? Or Egypt?” He was on his feet now, pacing. “Or Hungary? Even here in Anatolia? Gunpowder served us well at Rhodes. But compared to a piece of paper” — he reached down for one of the dispatches and held it up — “yes, believe me, compared to this piece of paper and thousands more like it, gunpowder is no more than a secondary stand of arms. Here in my hand” — he was coming close now and waving the piece of paper under my nose — “here is the great secret of Ottoman warfare that the Europeans keep sending their spies to ferret out. Paper, my son. Yet another weapon we got from the Chinese. All credit to them for that. But it was not the Chinese who taught the world how to make paper a weapon of war. No, it was my people, the first Osman tribe, the ones Europeans call ‘barbarians,’ who thought to use paper to keep written records of distances, troop counts, food supplies, and baggage limits. And it is paper that enables us to plan an attack long before a jihad begins. That and having Allah on our side” — long pause — “which the Europeans call ‘Ottoman luck.’”
I found his words very persuasive and could not wait to get back to my desk to write them down before I forgot them. It isn’t every day you get a private tutorial in military strategy from the conqueror of half the world. But before I could rise to my feet, he took up his peroration again.
Would I like to know, he asked, what he would choose as his second most valuable weapon after paper? This time he didn’t even pretend to wait for my reply.
“Weather,” he announced. “Weather, my son. If I were the god of thunder, I could devise a strategy to win any war.”
The god of thunder? Had I heard right?
“Take this war we are now engaged in,” he went on. “We must be careful not to arrive in Mesopotamia in the summer months because the heat limits our travel time to four hours out of every twenty-four. Beyond that limit, pack horses faint from the heat and die. So much for summer. On the other hand, the mudslides and avalanches of winter can wipe out an entire army overnight. So we must plan our arrival in Mesopotamia to avoid the Zagros Mountains in winter. Any delay is perilous. Do you begin to grasp the problem, my son?”
No mistaking it, he had called me “my son.” Twice!
“Weather is always the weakest link in any strategy,” he went on. “But, alas, I am not the god of thunder and weather is not under my control. So I must do my best with firepower and paper and pray to Allah to bend the weather to my purposes.”
Whereupon he uttered a brief inshallah and I began, once again, to rise to my feet. And once again he motioned me to stay.
Lucky for me he does apparently suffer hunger and thirst like ordinary humans. So, with a snap of his fingers, sherbet was brought in solid gold canteens encrusted with emeralds and rubies, and there was no talk of war for at least ten minutes while we refreshed ourselves royally. Then he waved the beakers aside and took his place on the pillows like a professor at his lectern. And, as he began again, it occurred to me that somewhere on the road from Kayseri, I had been reassigned to a new role. No longer the Interpreter or the Page of the Pouch or Rumi’s scribe, I was now the Acolyte with the Sultan for my Mentor.
“You see my son,” — this was the third time he called me “my son” — “as long as we are within our own empire, we can store foodstuffs in silos along the way. But after we enter Persian territory we can no longer depend on the goodwill of the people and their willingness to sell us what we need. The Kurds shift their allegiance between the Persians and us, depending on who is the most persuasive — with gun or with gold. And should the Persians outbid us for their services, the Kurds are highly experienced at burning everything they cannot carry and fading away into the mountains with their animals. So, you see, we must take with us everything we need in order to mount an offensive against Baghdad. Not only gunpowder, weapons, and siege machines, but food for the men and silage for the animals, metal for horseshoes, leather for boots — everything right down to the little seats between the camels’ bumps. Else we perish.”
It was a grim picture. But the drearier the forecast became, the less melancholy the Sultan became. He even managed half a smile for the little seats between the camel bumps. Then he went rooting around among his papers with what can only be described as renewed vigor. And to be sure he found the exact dispatch he was looking for and pounced on it.
“I hold here in my hand” — with a triumphant wave of the document — “a bill for hauling only four supply categories, not including grain, from Hamedan to Baghdad by camel. Once we cross into Persian territory (inshallah) we will need four thousand camels to supply the arsenal. Plus five thousand for my own larder. Plus two thousand for the necessaries of the Janissaries. More than eleven thousand camels in all. And let me tell you those camels are needful creatures. Everything must be made to order for them, even the saddle blankets. It costs fourteen hundred akces just to equip one of the beasts. Now add the purchase or rental of the horses and donkeys and the water buffalo that carry the heavy guns, and you can see what this change of plan is going to cost. And I am supposed to sign these orders” — waving his ringed hand across the sea of paper he had drowned us in — “and find the money for all of this.”
With a doleful shake of the head, he motioned me to my feet. The lesson was over. And I began to back out of the royal presence in the obligatory way.
Next thing I knew, I felt the touch of his hand on my shoulder. Now, one of the first things I learned at the School for Pages was that the Sultan touches no one and no one touches the Sultan. Yet there I was standing in the middle of his tent with someone’s hand on my shoulder, and with only the two of us present, it could not have been any hand but his. While I was debating with myself whether or not to raise my eyes and discover if I was dreaming, he spoke:
“When I was your age my father read to me a quote from our ancestor the great Ghengis Khan. Do you wish me to pass it on to you?”
Of course
I did. And these are the words he quoted (to the best of my memory): “After us the descendants of our clan will wear gold-embroidered garments, eat rich and sweet food, ride fine horses, and embrace beautiful women. But they will not say that they owe it all to their Chinese forefathers and to us, their fathers. They will forget us and our great times.”
I believe, Papa, that I saw a trace of mist in his eyes before he spoke again.
“This has been a long evening for you, my son.” Again! “Not what you expected when you signed on for this campaign. Without a military role to play and now deprived of your interpretive duties, you appear to have no avenue of expression for your youthful ardor. I myself have often found refuge in poetry at such times. And, observing the sympathetic way you have responded to the poems of the Mevlana, I believe that I have found an outlet for your poetic soul.”
My poetic soul! Lucky for me, I hadn’t raised my eyes. Otherwise, he surely would have read on my face my horror at this total misreading of my true nature.
Well, Papa, I have got my ardent wish for some role to play beyond that of a mere clerk, and, as you so wisely foretold, it has turned around and bit me in the ass.
Good night,
D.
From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
To: Sultan Suleiman en route, received at Sivas
Date: August 3, 1534
My fortune-favored Sultan:
It is acknowledged by all that generosity of spirit is one of your great virtues, my Sultan. But sadly not all hearts are as noble as yours. For my poor sake, whose whole life is only you, and for the sake of your children, who kiss the hem of your garment, be sparing with your trust. A royal court can all too easily become a nest of envious vipers. Sadly, I must remind you that your trusted viziers in council have been the source of assassination plots in the past. We must all be vigilant on your behalf and take care to surround ourselves only with those who love us most, our dear ones.
As a loving father, you want your daughter to be happy, as do we all. But as a royal family, we must continue to add new members who add strength to our house. A royal wedding is a God-given opportunity to create a new damat, a son-in-law of proven loyalty to sit as a vizier on your council. I have met separately with each of the candidates on our short list of husbands for Princess Saida. And I am now able to assure you that each one — the judge, the priest, and the admiral — would be only too willing to divest himself of any current domestic encumbrances in accordance with custom, and would welcome the handsome dowry that Princess Saida will bring with her and the gift of a suitable palace yet to be selected and equipped, a task I will be pleased to accomplish.
My own favorite choice would be Admiral Lofti. He has already proven himself in the Mediterranean theater. You may prefer the judge. The choice is, of course, yours. But allow me to point out that royal weddings are not created in a day. Even now, it is almost too late to plan a wedding to take place on your return. Everywhere I turn I am unable to proceed further until I can consult with the chosen damat, which I cannot do until a damat is named by you personally. Meanwhile, the days tick by and I am at a loss to begin the impossible task of making countless arrangements with a non-existent future damat. On my knees I beg you, Magnificent One, to take time out of your careworn life to consider the following suggestion:
What if you were to designate Admiral Lofti informally through me and then simply make the choice official the day you arrive home safely, God willing? That would enable me to put into motion the legal and financial agreements that precede any important wedding contract. You cannot know the eagerness with which I look forward to welcoming a new son-in-law into our family circle, who may start to assume some of the onerous responsibilities that weigh so heavily on you and, in your absence, on me.
I beg you, my fortune-favored Sultan, do not withhold your favor from Admiral Lofti, for the sake of your beautiful daughter, for your own sake, and for that of the Ottoman dynasty. I beg you to bestow your informal blessing on him at once as damat for Princess Saida. I have spoken to him on your behalf. He is your slave. Our citizens have dug deep into their coffers to support this war and, what is more, have suffered many long months of your absence without a word of complaint. Would it not be a just reward to invite them to share in your happiness at the wedding of your beloved daughter to a man of your own choosing on the day of your return?
I long for your victorious return. I pray for your safety. May Allah watch over you. I am out of ink and out of tears.
Signed and sealed with the Regent’s seal.
At the bottom of the page, visible only by the heat of a taper, is written:
Today the jewelers came to estimate the quantity of pearls needed to decorate the wedding train of a princess. How many pearls does it take to embroider a shroud?
From: Sultan Suleiman, encamped at Sivas
To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
Date: August 9, 1534
Your keen eye and motherly concern have brought to mind a recollection of Princess Saida’s sweet smile, which we have hardly seen in the months since she lost her beloved grandmother. Like you I would welcome the sight of a touch of color in her pale cheeks and sparkle in her sad eyes. My daughter’s happiness is close to my heart, and I will be the most joyful of men to dance at her wedding.
Your efforts to bring that happy day closer are one of the many generous gestures from your capacious heart that I treasure. Not even a Sultan can always rely on such constant devotion. Your choice is my choice. I will forward an informal letter to be shown to Admiral Lofti, this document to be shared only with the necessary few.
My daughter is blessed to have her future happiness resting in such loving and capable hands as yours.
Signed,
The Sultan
At the bottom of the page, visible only by the heat of a taper, is written:
When mortals make plans, the gods laugh. Wars alter destinies. New ties are formed on the campaign trail. New bonds are forged. Forbidden pathways open wide. What has seemed impossible becomes possible.
38
ALEPPO
From: His Special Envoy, Jean de la Foret at Aleppo
To: H.M. Francis the First, King of France at Blois
Date: September 15, 1534
Majesty:
Does your Majesty wonder at the source of this letter? No more than I do at being here in Syria and still out of reach of the Sultan. I can think of no word to describe the wild chase we are embarked on other than comedy.
As I reported from Constantinople (which the Ottomans have renamed Istanbul), we arrived there for the prearranged conference with the Sultan only to find that he had departed for Mesopotamia some weeks earlier. But we were assured that we could catch up with him at Aleppo if we took the sea route to Syria. We had no choice if we were to succeed in our mission to negotiate a trade agreement. But whatever issue we might take with their attitude, be it said for the Ottomans that they did find a berth for us on one of their ships bound for Antioch and provided us with a squad of Janissaries to protect us on the land portion to follow.
The sea voyage from Istanbul went quite without incident. These Ottomans have indeed turned the Mediterranean into a Turkish lake. They own it and they know it. When they passed us on their flotillas, they waved at us gaily like hosts at a garden party.
But that illusion was shattered abruptly when we arrived at Aleppo to find no Sultan. We are now advised that, as I write, the Sultan has shifted his route and is marching north to join the Grand Vizier in Azerbaijan. We are now informed that the Padishah will be pleased to audience us not at Aleppo but at Tabriz.
We have been offered a complicated explanation for this change of route — something to do with an unseasonable current of ferocious strength in the Tigress River that would have imperiled the animals and heavy guns. Surely the engineers must have considered cond
itions on the Tigress before abandoning the Syrian route. One suspects that we are not being told the whole story. One suspects it may have to do with events in Tabriz. According to my informant, who has returned to us this week from a reconnaissance mission to Azerbaijan, the Grand Vizier has had two months to establish a court and seems to have used it to position himself as a kind of surrogate king. Although the capture of Tabriz may have been brought to your ears as a great triumph, it must be admitted that the victory was considerably facilitated when the Great King of Persia took to his heels and fled eastward after he learned that the Ottoman army was approaching. So Ibrahim Pasha actually walked unimpeded into an untouched town and a fully functioning palace complete with furnishings. My informant tells me that the Persians didn’t even have time to douse the cooking fires.
Mind you, no one can deny the Grand Vizier’s talent for organization. Think of how he set up the Ottoman administration of Egypt in the twenties — still functioning ten years later — laws, protocols, positions, appointments all in place within three months of his defeat of the Mamluks. Ibrahim Pasha is not likable, nor trustworthy — after all, he is a Greek so is naturally two-faced by birth and ambitious by inclination — but he does know how to get things done. Now he has apparently set himself up like a king in the palace that Tahmasp abandoned, and has taken up the Persian habit of accepting the full body bow as his right. He has also begun to sign his edicts as Saskehier, which in the Turkish tongue means king.
What will Suleiman make of all this when he arrives in Tabriz? He was well satisfied with Ibrahim’s generalship of the Egyptian conquest. But Azerbaijan is not Egypt. The Mamluk rulers of Egypt were usurpers who created and left behind them new instruments of governance. When Ibrahim Pasha conquered Egypt, he had only to change their official tugra to the Ottoman ensign and carry on as a foreign master. But the capital that Tahmasp left behind at Tabriz is a city with a long history of service to the Shah of Persia. And thence are we now bound. Somehow what began as a diplomatic mission has turned into a child’s game of tag, in which the Ottomans chase after the Great King of Persia and we chase after the Ottomans with the local Bedouins snapping like puppies at our heels.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 28