As with all of Mama’s efforts to turn me into an educated man (and I still miss her every day, Papa), my rudimentary knowledge of French came to my aid. My debt to her is boundless — as is my debt to you.
You should have seen the farewells this morning when the Frank took his leave: the Sultan decked out in all his diamonds and his egret feathers to honor the guest, and Monsieur de la Foret, arms akimbo, clad in the gorgeous caftan that was his gift from the Sultan.
And what do you suppose the Frenchman took away with him as a gift for his master, the French king? It was the blackamoor boy, the Sultan’s own gift from Uzun Hazan the Tall, that the Sultan chose to hand over to the French king. I wonder what made the Sultan send the boy away. Apparently it was the Grand Vizier’s suggestion. Asked by his master what gift would best express the great value that he placed on this French alliance, the Grand Vizier, always ready with an answer, replied that the most valuable gift you can ever give is the one you hate most to part with. So the boy was sent away, wrapped up in a gold-embroidered rug like a package, and we will go on without him. Everyone is sorry for the loss. The little fellow livened up the palace with his dances and his tricks. And he made the Sultan smile.
This letter will be dispatched to you far away in the Istanbul sunshine via the Sultan’s courier as we head south into Persia. Think of me plodding along the bleak and chilly roads of Azerbaijan and feeling just slightly envious of your cozy situation, but still wishing you good health in the sunshine.
D.
42
SULTANIYE
From: Danilo del Medigo at Sultaniye
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: October 12, 1534
Dear Papa:
I cannot bring myself to relive the miserable details of what happened to me after the French ambassadors left Tabriz. Something I did or said during their audience with the Sultan had offended Grand Vizier Ibrahim deeply. Last night he came to my room to berate me for plotting against my mentor Ahmed Pasha and to warn me to keep a good distance from the Sultan, because I will be watched for any inappropriate attempts to bring myself to the Padishah’s attention in my “cunning Jewish way.” Apparently my offense is unmitigated gall and excessive ambition — I, your son, Danilo, who has always been reproached for my lack of ambition, am now charged with an excess of it!
So now I am traveling under two constraints. First of all, since the Sultan remains totally under the spell of the Mevlana, the Sufi mystic, my readings from the life of Alexander no longer interest him. I ought to have been prepared for such a thing. Mama warned me often enough to watch out for the whimsical nature of the great ones of this world. “He who walks in the train of a prince,” she used to say, “walks on shifting sand.” But I did not understand that this capricious bestowal and withdrawal of love applies to dead as well as living favorites. Once īskender fell from grace, I lost my place as his historian, and at Tabriz I was dismissed by the Grand Vizier from my evening reading duties. After that, it would take a miracle, I thought, to give new life to the moribund remains of Alexander the Great.
During the negotiations with the French ambassador, when I was able to render a small service to the Padishah, I believed I might have carved out a new niche for myself. However it now seems that whatever I do to be of help to the Sultan will be regarded by the Grand Vizier as nothing less than presumption and a sign of my “cunning Jewish ways.” I cannot write more of this tonight. It is too painful.
Good night, Papa.
D.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Sultaniye
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: October 13, 1534
Dear Papa:
Tomorrow we travel on to Hamedan. At least, that was the next destination the last time I heard. Having been warned to make myself scarce around the Sultan, I am no longer party to the conversations in his tent. So I must depend on my fellow pages — to many of whom I am now bound by our mutual loathing of the Grand Vizier — for word of route changes, time tables, and the like. But even the Sultan’s own pages are kept in the dark most of the time by his natural inclination toward secrecy. Surely you must have noticed this tendency in him during the many hours you spent at his side. Or was he more forthcoming with you? I believe he does confide in the Grand Vizier. As well, he does communicate by pigeon with the advance and rear guard of our army. After all, the captains must be kept up to date on any changes to the route of march, if only so they can know which way to point their horses every morning. But to the rest of us who have no pressing need to know, nothing is told.
To a lesser leader than Sultan Suleiman, the scene of desolation that greeted us here in this no man’s land between Azerbaijan and Persia might have proved daunting. But our Sultan has used it as a goad to his weary troops. His speech to them on our arrival in Persia was devoted to a single theme: If the Persians, cowardly and weak as we know them to be, have run away again, we will follow them and find them and kill them.
Of course, all assume that our final goal is to occupy Baghdad and name our Sultan as the new caliph there. But never have I heard that spoken of. So, given the level of secrecy that prevails in this camp on matters of such great portent, I suppose I should not be surprised that no mention has come to my ears of what is to become of me personally. I still have my horse, my groom, my traveling library, and my position of Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter, although I haven’t had anything to interpret since my encounter with the French mission at Tabriz. But I have continued to study the ancient historians just in case I should happen to be reactivated as a source of information on warfare in central Asia as practiced by the greatest soldier the world has ever known.
Tales of the beauty of the women of Sultaniye are highly exaggerated. Unlike some women we have seen, for example, in Erzurum, where they wrap their wives and daughters up in dun-colored canvas like Egyptian mummies before they let them out of the house, Kurdish women do not cover their faces, just their hair. In other words, you can actually see them. And, from all appearances, they seem to be shy, modest, and agreeable if not exceptionally good-looking. Indeed, they look no different than most women except for the prostitutes, who are flashy, money-hungry, and loud like most prostitutes. Don’t worry, Papa, I am not speaking from an intimate knowledge, but I am allowed to look and listen, am I not?
It is late and I tend to make bad jokes when it gets late. So I will bid you good night and ask you again to please keep my letters for my children in case they should ever want to know what their papa was up to on his travels through Kurdistan.
Love,
D.
From: Sultan Suleiman, encamped at Sultaniye
To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
Date: October 9, 1534
My prized and deeply honored consort:
Muhabbi, the poet, writes his love poems to your beauty. Suleiman, the king, writes this paean to praise your wisdom. Of course, we will have a double celebration — a victory and a wedding. How better to reward my flock for their sacrifices in my cause? Under your wise guidance we will give our people a festival of joy beyond their imagination. And while they are feasting and dancing, Muhabbi, the Sultan of Love, who has been silenced for so long by the demands of duty, will be heard above the tumult singing his praises and devotions to his true love, the beauteous Sultana Hürrem.
Only a king secure in the knowledge that his majesty was being well guarded from his enemies both at home and abroad could afford to risk embarking on such a fated adventure as the conquest of Baghdad. With my queen as Regent and Allah beside me at the helm of my ship of state, I am such a King.
Signed by the Sultan’s seal.
Beneath the signature is the encrypted message:
When is a page equal to a king? When he is joined to his princess in the jihad of love until death.
43
HAMEDAN<
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From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
To: Sultan Suleiman en route, received at Hamedan
Date: October 8, 1534
Hail to the conquering hero!
Istanbul is filled with joy at the news of your occupation of the shah’s capital. The streets ring with the cry “Tabriz is ours!” I cry tears of loneliness every night, but my heart is bursting with pride that I am Sultana to the Master of Two Continents and Three Seas.
As the miles between us increase so does the heaviness of my heart. But then I remind myself that the fearsome Zagros Mountains of Persia still lie ahead before you can claim your prize at Baghdad. In the face of such trials, who am I to complain as I sit here among my pillows, warm and safe, while you shoulder the burden of conquering the world?
Still, I do have my own small labors and disappointments, which at times threaten to overwhelm my spirit. To put it simply, my excursion along the Bosphorus with the two princesses was a failure. For reasons that will become obvious, I am using my new-found writing skills to make a private account to you of what happened. This is for your eyes only, sealed in wax with my signet by my own unsteady hand.
Early yesterday morning, our party set off from the Grand Vizier’s dock in the beautiful craft lent for the occasion by Admiral Lofti. The bright sun shining high in the sky and the Bosphorus shimmering in its rays seemed to be an omen that our little mission to find a palace for Princess Saida had Allah’s blessing. But as those palaces up for purchase passed before our eyes one by one, the more elegant they became, the deeper became the gloom that surrounded our sad Princess Saida.
The sortie came to its end when we disembarked on the island of Kinali to stretch our limbs and enjoy the beauties of nature untamed. As we picked our way through the brambles to the little ruined mosque hidden in the greenery, Princess Saida’s spirit seemed to lift. But the moment we heard the squeak of the gate that was swinging in the breeze, a change came over her. And when a little ruined mosque was revealed to our eyes, she burst into a torrent of uncontrollable weeping. Luckily the admiral was not present to witness this display.
Clearly, my words of encouragement to our precious Saida to ease off after a year of mourning have fallen on deaf ears. If we are to get this child married we will have to do it without her help. As long as duty keeps you so far away and for so long, the responsibility to guide this girl through her losses and on to a life of happiness and fulfillment falls to me. Trust me; I will not fail in my efforts to fulfill the duties of a mother to our reluctant daughter.
Signed and sealed with the Regent’s stamp by Sultana Hürrem.
From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
To: Sultan Suleiman, received at Hamedan
Date: October 16, 1534
Adored, worshiped, victorious Sultan:
Was ever a woman as fortunate as I am to play a part in celebrating the greatest victory the world has ever seen? Today there arrived from you a document that will enable me to make the expenditures needed to bring to life my dream of a double festival event in your capital that will astonish the world. Your generosity is not only abundant but is a tangible sign of your faith in me.
In fairness be it said that I could never live up to these heavy responsibilities without the help of our much loved daughter, Princess Saida, who sits beside me to record my words. I am still not prepared to relinquish her secretarial services completely. Even though she has tutored me faithfully to read my own correspondence and write my own letters, my new ability to write in my own hand lags far behind the volume of correspondence I am called upon to address. Without her I am still half speechless and half blind.
If my information is correct, by the time the courier carrying this letter in his pouch reaches you, you will be in Persia. That my far-off presence is even a small part of such a glorious achievement gives me the fortitude to carry on with my countless duties as your anointed Regent and the guardian of your children. It is my honor and my privilege.
Signed and stamped with the Regent’s seal by Sultana Hürrem.
Beneath the signature is the encrypted message:
Today came the dressmaker from the bazaar to measure the bridal party and the Sultana for wedding dresses. The Sultana and the bride’s maids bubbled with enthusiasm. The bride was silent.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Hamedan
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: October 31, 1534
Dear Papa:
The fleeing king, Tahmasp, has left Hamedan without a trace. When he fled, the Persians either ate or burned or carried off every edible in the vicinity. Luckily we brought along our own supplies. But we are also burdened with tons of siege equipment that will be needed if the king of kings decides to make a stand against us at Baghdad. Officially, that fabled place has been handed over to us by its governor, but this is Kurdish territory and the Kurds are known to be undependable allies. Who knows what unpleasant surprises we will find when we cross into Iraq on the other side of the Zagros Mountains?
Meanwhile, here in Hamedan, the Grand Vizier prepares to split up our unwieldy army once again, this time for the crossing from Persia into Iraq. He will be heading the advance force to supervise transport of the heavy scaling equipment and artillery. When word comes back to us that he is safely across the Zagros Mountains and that the passes are clear of Persians, we will set off to rejoin him at the gates to Baghdad.
Tomorrow he will be gone, and those of us in the Sultan’s retinue will be left to enjoy a rest stop of several days here in Hamedan, the city known to the ancients as Ecbatana and the very center of the world of Alexander the Great. If ever I am to have a second chance to review the Sultan’s once-loved īskender, this is it. Hamedan is only a two-hour ride from the battlefield of Gaugamela, where Alexander fulfilled the Gordian prophecy to become lord of all Asia. Here in the surround of Ecbatana is the ground on which Alexander’s Persian war was won.
Hamedan is also the burial place of Hephaestion, Alexander’s boon companion, who sickened and died here on their journey home. This misfortune, the historians point out, marked the beginning of a spiral of adversity that led to the loss of Alexander’s own life within a year.
The junction of these two significant moments in the hero’s life — the high and the low — at one and the same place is almost enough to encourage a belief in some grand closing of a fateful circle by the gods, isn’t it? Just a thought, Papa.
So here we are in Hamedan, which the local Kurds still refer to as Ecbatana, and where they also speak of īskender as if he had passed by them in the street just yesterday. Time is a poor eraser of memory in these parts. When I mentioned this to Ahmed Pasha, he said that nomadic people, such as his own and the Sultan’s ancestors, tend to move forward with one eye on the past. He reminds me that nomads do not own property; hence they lack an attachment to a single homeland. And, being illiterate for the most part, they have no written record to share. All they have in common is their history passed down, mouth to ear, from one generation to the next.
“Stories of the past are their only heritage,” he explained to me. “With them, ancient victories are celebrated as if they happened last week and ancient betrayals are never forgotten. Any man who hopes to conquer Iraq or Persia ignores their tribal past at his peril.” More tomorrow.
Love,
D.
From: His proud consort, Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
To: Sultan Suleiman, Shadow of God on Earth, Emperor of the East and West, Padishah of All the Arab Lands, en route to a great victory over the heretic Tahmasp, received at Hamedan
Date: November 1, 1534
My fortune-favored Sultan:
I received a visit today from Vizier Rustem, my choice as a damat for our loved younger daughter, Mihrimah. He will make the perfect son-in-law — wise, settled, and bone-loyal to his Sultan. Now, we must
proceed with haste to provide the same future for Saida, if for no other reason than her wedding must, of course, precede that of her younger sister.
I pause to indulge myself in a sigh of relief that the next task of staging a royal wedding will be easier when Princess Mihrimah’s wedding comes along. Even now she springs to life when I speak of her future. Like all young girls, she dreams of her palace and the jewels she will wear. And I am pleased to report that our choice for her husband, the esteemed Rustem Pasha, is already in consultation with me. After a meeting with the court astrologer I have set the date for a May wedding two years hence. Even two years is not too early to make a start on planning these grand occasions.
I long for your return. I pray for your safety. May Allah watch over you.
Signed and stamped with the Regent’s seal by Sultana Hürrem.
Beneath the signature, an encryption:
Not all young girls dream of palaces and jewels. A princess in a tower dreams of her rescue by a paladin on a white horse.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Hamedan
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: November 2, 1534
Dear Papa:
Ibrahim Pasha finally set off this morning and with him went over half of our army and most of our guns. Already the camp has taken on a lighter air, almost as if we are on a holiday. Give the Grand Vizier his due. He is not lacking in courage or ability. I only wish he liked me a little more. But there is something about my very presence that gets his back up. At times I have the feeling that he sees me as a rival for the Sultan’s favor. But that is ridiculous, isn’t it? He and the Sultan are, after all, childhood friends, fellow campaigners, and, I am told, sometime bedmates. Maybe it is simply that I am a Jew and he hates all Jews.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 31