The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Be assured, Majesty, you will be advised of what lies ahead for us immediately upon our safe arrival in Azerbaijan.

  May God be with us, and with you, sire.

  Your servant,

  Jean de la Foret

  39

  ERZURUM

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Erzurum

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: September 9, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  After a hellish two-week march across the last of the Anatolian plateau, we arrived at Erzurum with just one day to prepare for the arrival of Uzun Hazan the Tall, Bey of the Akroyun tribe of Turkomen, who have come to join us in the campaign against the Persian king. Along the way we have been collecting small parties of subashis, who are merely the captains of towns who come with troops when called. But this bey is chief of an entire tribe of Turkomen, which makes him a distant relative to the Osman tribe as both go back to their origins on the steppes of Central Asia.

  Being a governor, Uzun brings with him a full complement of staff — treasurers and bookkeepers, clerks and cooks, grooms and musicians and armorers — as well as fighting men. There have to be a thousand of them at the very least, all dressed in their finest as if they had come not to a war but to a party. We, on the other hand, have had only one day to wash the Anatolian dust out of our hair, not to mention our fingernails and our ears.

  Starting early this morning, the barbers’ lines have stretched out past the perimeter of the camp and the washerwomen’s tubs even farther. So my day was spent getting cleaned up for the Turkomen.

  More to come.

  Love,

  D.

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Erzurum

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: September 10, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  What a day! All morning long the heralds raced around the camp blowing their horns and announcing a gathering at eventide to make Uzun Hassan and his tribe official members of the Sultan’s expedition.

  Here is the scene: A vast tent at the citadel large enough to cover a thousand people should it happen to rain, which it did not. Uzun the Tall appears, sumptuously bejeweled, his musicians trumpeting his way loudly. Next, a rousing chorus of welcome from the Sultan’s marching band, more numerous than the Emir’s and thus even louder. Now the entrance of the Janissaries, shambling as usual but still imposing, the enormous plumes of bird of paradise feathers that sprout out of their white caps and fall in a curve down their backs almost to their knees.

  Next to enter, the members of the divan, every clerk, imam, lawyer, and pasha. The chamberlains stand out in scarlet, the priests in purple, and the judges in their green turbans. Finally, the Sultan presents himself in red velvet and furs, and manages to outshine the emir’s copious jewels with one careless spray of diamonds pinned to his turban.

  As always, the Sultan commands total silence. With a wave of his hand, he beckons the Turkomen to approach his dais, and one by one they walk slowly, eyes lowered, toward his throne where each receives a purse of coins and an embroidered caftan, then backs his way out of the Sultan’s presence smoothly. (Clearly, these marauders have learned something about decorum since their early days as wild march warriors.) This is a long procedure, and by the end everyone is very hungry.

  The feast begins. I cannot count the number of courses. And I cannot imagine how the cooks concocted all of them in the course of one day. Easy enough with common fare such as millet, gruel, and macaroni, but think of what it takes to conjure up a meal of horse and sheep meat boiled up in kumis, fermented mare’s milk, with the resource of only a crude field kitchen. How did they do it? And where have they been hiding the buffoons and the dwarfs and the jugglers who popped out between the courses, whom I had never seen before on this long march? It was as if they had been kept in a box at the ready, waiting for their chance to entertain us, which they did with great energy and enthusiasm, then vanished into whatever section of the caravan in which they are sequestered.

  It is hard to imagine a spectacle to rival the Rite of Welcome that the Sultan provided, but when the Turkoman chief rose to respond he came very close. After praising the Sultan’s lavish hospitality and praying for the success of our mission, Hazan the Tall announced that he had brought with him a gift for the Padishah, snapped his fingers, and summoned a corps of sturdy mountain men bearing an immense rolled-up carpet so wide that it took the effort of eight strongmen to accomplish each turn as they rolled it out.

  This carpet, he explained, had been woven with threads dyed by the women of the Akroyun tribe. As it revealed itself, it resembled an altarpiece with eight panels. Laid out flat, each panel celebrated a single Ottoman victory, starting with their early conquests in Anatolia. The first panel — the plainest — was a simple black rectangle bordered in gold containing only lines of text, each embroidered in glittering letters. Orhan, son of Osman, Ghazi, Sultan of the Ghazi, Lord of the Horizons, Burgrave of the Whole World, we all read.

  The next panel celebrated the early Osman march warriors, followed by the capture of Bursa from the Byzantines. Watching, I wondered how many others in the gathering were struck by the sheer gall of these nomads who had wandered down into the pastures of Anatolia to feed their Asian goats only two hundred years before.

  As it turned out, the gradual unrolling of the carpet scene by scene was a ceremony of some length, since each one had to be examined, explained, and applauded. After Bursa came the crossing over to Europe seen from the banks of the Danube (a deep blue), where Orhan’s warriors demolished a force of French crusaders, pictured holding crosses dripping blood (a deep crimson). Then came the Conqueror’s victory over the Serbs at Kosovo, the establishment of a European capital at Edirne, and an amazing depiction of the overthrow of the Byzantine Empire at Constantinople in 1453. I get a chill even now as I think of it.

  There stands Mehmet the Conqueror, his eyes fixed mercilessly on the emperor Constantine at the moment of surrender. On the shores of the Bosphorus the headless bodies of the defeated bob up and down like squashed melons. The picture of Mehmet — his thin nose curved over his red lips, his piercing eyes staring out from under his heavy, arched eyebrows — is so lifelike that it is impossible to believe it was executed with needles and silk threads. Certainly, one would have thought it enough of a present. But no! It turned out that the carpet was only gift-wrapping for an object secreted in its folds.

  Picture this: the carpet now covers the floor from the entrance to the dais with only the last section left to be unfolded. Directly above it sits the Sultan on his throne looking very pleased with this magnificent tribute to his house. At a sign from the chief porter, the carpet handlers take hold of the last folded edge and throw it back to reveal what has been hidden inside: a boy in red satin pantaloons and slippers with gold buckles, his thick black curls tied with silken ribbons and the face of a black angel. He stands up smiling and walks with the kind of dignity that only a slave can muster to the edge of the dais. There, graceful as a gazelle, he prostrates himself at the Sultan’s feet.

  After that, all I can report is that he was quickly whisked away to the Sultan’s tent and I was excused from my reading duties that night.

  D.

  From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

  To: Sultan Suleiman, Caliph of the World, received at Erzurum

  Date: August 30, 1534

  Noble Lord:

  I have given some thought and study to the tradition of celebrations in your distinguished family. What say you to this: that we combine the celebrations of your victorious return from Baghdad and the royal wedding into one glorious jubilee? The world remembers that on your victorious return from Austria in 1530, your humiliation of the so-called Holy Roman emperor at Vienna was commemorated together with the circumcisions of our four sons. That joint military and domestic gala — the weeks of dancing, jous
ting, and feasting — is remembered with affection by your subjects and spoken of to this day.

  Now, the forthcoming marriage of Princess Saida presents us with a similar opportunity. It gives you a chance to reward your people for the many sacrifices that they have made in the cause of your jihad, an opportunity that may never come again in your lifetime (may Allah grant you a long and happy life). We might call it the Festival of Double Happiness or some such name.

  To plan out and implement what will be an event of some weeks’ duration will most certainly tax my abilities, but be assured my whole heart is in this venture. If you are in accord, and now that Admiral Lofti Pasha is informally chosen to be Princess Saida’s damat, all you need do on the day of your triumphal return is to officially place your hand on his shoulder to set off a double celebration the like of which has never been seen in the world.

  In these efforts I could use the help of the princess. Unfortunately, the dear girl has given more than sufficient proof of her inability to understand that the time has come for her to emerge into the world as what she is — a beautiful, dutiful daughter who will make her damat a beautiful, dutiful wife and will contribute new luster to the magnificent Ottoman name. I am honored to play a part, however small, in such momentous events.

  Written and sealed in wax by the hand of the Sultana Hürrem.

  Beneath the signature, an encrypted message:

  Choosing the groom has brought the wedding day closer.

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Erzurum

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: September 26, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  This morning, before I had a chance to put last night’s letter in the Istanbul pouch, we were all summoned to the same chamber as before to be briefed on the details of our journey from here to Tabriz. As ever, the Sultan took his place high above us on the dais. But this time, he brought the little slave boy with him and sat him on his lap. And to my mind the Padishah appeared even more delighted with this second gift from the Emir than he had been with the first gift of the carpet.

  I heard the Aga telling my mentor, Ahmed Pasha, that the boy had been trained to please. If so, his teachers should be well satisfied with their work. But how well, I wonder, will his African blood survive the rigors of Armenia and Azerbaijan? I suppose they can keep him swaddled in furs, like a little Russian prince. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of swaddling myself. Just joking, Papa. You have sent me off well prepared with my store of woolen socks and my sheepskin vest, for which I have already begun to thank you as we travel into northern parts.

  Gratefully,

  D.

  40

  TABRIZ

  From: Danilo del Medigo at Tabriz

  To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

  Date: September 28, 1534

  Dear Papa:

  What a revelation is the east! We haven’t even reached Persia yet, but already, here in Tabriz, our eyes and ears and nose tell us at every turn that Azerbaijan is not in Europe.

  Lucky for us, the Persian king did not have time to carry off his treasure when he fled in such a hurry. Believe it or not, he left us his entire treasury. There it stands in an unlocked room, guarded for safekeeping by our Janissaries who, in a wonderful twist of fate, will shortly be paid their quarterly wages out of the very hoard they are duty bound to conserve.

  It appears that when he conquered Tahmasp’s capital, the Grand Vizier brought the Sultan not only a military coup but also a vast fortune. And if you add this cache to the wealth already piled up by the Ottoman conquests in Egypt and Europe — remembering also that Sultan Suleiman did not exactly begin his reign as a pauper — this acquisition must make him at the very least the second-richest man in the world. The first, I believe, remains the Persian monarch, who, to hear tell, still has vast riches hidden in the eastern reaches of his kingdom. And we of the Sultan’s entourage are housed here in what was his palace.

  You should see the Shah’s bedroom, Papa. The floor and sofas are swathed in silk and gold Persian carpets. Not an inch of common wool. The bed, which stands not on wooden supports but on columns of fluted gold, is guarded by giant crystal lions, each with huge emeralds for eyes.

  I do not command the skill to describe the overhead lantern, its hundreds of drops of silver inlaid with gold, encrusted with turquoise, and dripping with rubies and diamonds. Nor can words convey the impression of the Divan-khane, where the Shah granted audiences. That chamber is domed in scarlet cloth with foliage cut out of it, each leaf bordered in colored silk ribbons. The delicacy of the appliqué work is even more impressive than the richness of the fabric. Every room of this palace is exactly as Shah Tahmasp left it, down to the hand-washing basins with ewers cast in solid gold.

  Standing at the entrance, I was reminded of what Alexander saw when he entered the tent that the then Persian king, Darius, had abandoned to him at Issus: the solid gold throne tossed over in the rush to escape, the carpets thrown about like so many rags, and gold everywhere — gold vessels, gold trays, gold implements.

  Into this waste of extravagance walks the victor, Alexander the Great, twenty-five years old and bred in the austerity of Macedonia. There he stands gazing about him at the evidence of the everyday life of the great Persian ruler he has just driven from the field. At first, he is speechless. Finally, he speaks.

  “So this is what it is like to be a great king,” he says. No question, these Ottomans have lessons in majesty to learn from the Persian kings.

  Of course, unlike those of us in the Sultan’s retinue, the rank and file of our army cannot be accommodated in such luxury. The troops are settled in a camp of tents that has been erected at the edge of the city. Not, you will note, outside the walls. Like Venice, the city of Tabriz has no fortifications. And, perhaps for that reason, it has never been sacked. Ask any citizen and he will tell you without shame that back in 1392, when Tamerlane came rampaging across Persia, reducing the surrounding fields to ash and the towns to ruin, the people of Tabriz immediately hoisted a white flag of surrender and sent out a party of officials to bow down to him and bury their faces in the dirt at his feet. It would appear that not much has changed in Tabriz in 150 years.

  Still, although there was no armed resistance this time, I sense an air of unease in this palace. Whatever the Grand Vizier has done to subdue the populace, he has done it in such a way as to set up an undercurrent of resentment that one can detect in the narrowing of an eye or the curl of a lip. And it goes without saying that if there is insurgency brewing in Tabriz, the Sultan must deal with it before he can move on into Iraq.

  Understandably, the Sultan no longer has time for leisurely nightly reading. So the Grand Vizier’s equerry informs me. Perhaps there is a different reason why my evening presence is no longer requested.

  On the night of our arrival in Tabriz I came to the Sultan’s tent and seated myself in the anteroom of his sleeping room as I always do. It is the most quiet and serene place in the entire encampment, a place where I can preview my evening’s reading without distractions. Well, tonight, as I reached over to turn up the oil lamp, my sleeve caught on the edge of the chimney, knocking it over, dousing me and my beautiful caftan, and spewing shattered glass all around; and the worst gaff of all, breaking the silence. I was so occupied with trying to sop up the oil from my caftan that I hardly noticed the figure that came out of the Sultan’s chamber holding a bottle of wine and now stood before me, glowering.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” His Greek accent was unmistakable.

  Before I could gather my wits to respond, a pair of powerful hands took me by the shoulders, pulled me up to face him, and demanded, “Who let you in?”

  “I am the Sultan’s Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter, sir,” I managed to stammer.

  “Did Ahmed send you?”

  “No, sir, I come by af
ter the last prayer every evening . . . at the Sultan’s request.”

  At the very mention of the word “Sultan,” I felt the great hands loosen their grip on my shoulders.

  “Well, the Sultan will not be needing your services tonight. So you can gather up your possessions and scat,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “And be quick about it. You certainly can’t appear before the Padishah in that condition. Your caftan is soaked.”

  How I looked was the last thing on my mind, but he was right. The Sultan is particular about the deportment of his pages, and my beautiful caftan was badly stained and drenched in oil. No argument there.

  So I bundled up my papers and headed for the corridor, his voice following me as I walked. “Strong vinegar is an excellent remedy for grease stains. Pity to ruin the cloak. It is a beautiful garment. How came you by it?”

  “It was a gift from the Sultan, sir,” I replied.

  “I see.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully and then walked closer to me. “Hold your head up. Have I seen you before?” He favored me with a glance that made me feel he could see into my very soul. “Yes! It was you who performed in the hippodrome with the gerit team.”

  I nodded my assent.

  “So you are what we would call a double hitter, not only a foreign language translator but a master of the gerit as well.” Then, in an abrupt change of tone, “None of which entitles you to come skulking around the Sultan’s tent, understand?”

  If I did not understand his words, there was no mistaking his tone.