“I will write to your father to clarify the difference between using a weapon to hunt animals and using it to make war. The doctor is a rational man. He will, of course, understand.”
Of course I agree with him, Papa. I trust that you do, too. The prospect of a royal hunt in the Zagros Mountains is something I never dared to dream of. Certainly it is more than enough reward for the weeks I have spent questioning the point of this venture, ever since Konya. And, truthfully, Papa, I will be happy to leave Persia. Despite the richness of its past, it is now a forlorn place. Wherever you look, your eye falls on piles of trash that mark where houses and barns and chicken coops once stood. There are signs of abandonment in every street. When we arrived, laundry was still hanging on the tree branches by the river. Tahmasp’s men did not even take the time to set proper fires, and many of the buildings are still standing. But with no people in them. Hamedan is like a corpse from which the soul has escaped. This is an aspect of war I was not prepared for. But the Tigris and the Euphrates still beckon.
And something happened tonight that made me hope that my bumbling translations may not have fallen on deaf ears. As I was stepping out through the tent curtain, I was stopped by the sound of the Sultan’s voice. At first I thought he was talking to me, but then I realized he was talking to himself — about Gaugamela. And you know what I heard him say, Papa? Let me tell you his exact words: “The boy had it right!” I heard him say. “After Gaugamela, īskender was king of Asia. If he had been satisfied with that and stopped at Baghdad, none of the bad things would have happened to him.” His words.
Don’t be surprised if this is the last letter you receive from me for some time. The trek ahead takes us over mountains where the courier service between our encampment and the capital does not operate. But there is no cause for you to worry. The Grand Vizier has prepared the way. The passes are clear of Persians. And this is the preferred season in which to cross the Zagros Mountains.
Next stop, Baghdad.
As always, your devoted son,
D.
45
HANIKIYYE
From: Danilo del Medigo at Hanikiyye
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: November 23, 1534
Dear Papa:
By the time you read this, word of our misadventures will have reached the capital via the Sultan’s courier system. But I doubt what is reported by the Grand Vizier’s staff will tell the whole of our calamitous encounter in the mountain pass. Remember, he is the one responsible for the change of route that brought us to this pass — excuse the pun, Papa. So his report will have every reason to discount the effects of his decision.
First, let me assure you that I am writing to you unharmed from the town of Hanikiyye, where we are now camped on the western slopes of the fearsome Zagros. This is the spot we hit when we finally blasted out of the Manisht pass.
Breathe easy, Papa. We were not waylaid and attacked by Persian snipers. In fact, after what I have lived through in the last two days, I would most certainly rather have been menaced from the mountaintops by Persian sharpshooters than by what fell upon us with such pitiless ferocity in the Zagros pass.
Understand, there are two routes from Hamedan through the mountains that divide Persia from Mesopotamia. One is the winter route near the high desert in the east. The other is the easy summer route through the foothills. This being November, well before the onset of winter, we naturally took the easier one, and our journey along the Zagros foothills began uneventfully in mist and drizzle, normal for November in these parts.
On the third day out from Hamedan, the peaks of the Zagros loomed ahead of us like gods guarding the entrance to the pass on the eastern rim of the plain. Huge limestone, dolomite, and sandstone rocks a thousand feet straight up, they seemed closer to heaven than to us. But we were, after all, following the much traveled Silk Road to and from China that had been used for hundreds of years. And when the sun peered out from behind the peaks to welcome us to the land of the caliphs, I think I was not the only one who took it as a good omen as well as a source of warmth.
We moved quickly into the network of gullies that spreads out through the foothills. On both sides, the wind has stripped the ridges bare and blown furrows of snow into the shallow depressions left between the rocky outcroppings. Those patches might have served us as little flags signaling more snow to come, but these mountaintops are snow-capped year-round so the presence of a few loose flakes on the hillside was hardly noticed. Besides, the Grand Vizier had passed along this same route less than a week earlier and sent back a favorable report with only one warning: when we reach the tall mountains, we are to watch out for concealed Persian snipers.
It was afternoon when a breeze began to gust in from the east, but we were too busy setting up camp to pay it any heed. And by the time the tent poles were sunk, the animals safely tethered, and the food supplies distributed, everyone was much too tired to bother about the gusts of wind that, by then, had begun to seem more like blasts. It was an exhausted corps that bedded down behind our canvas walls into a deep sleep, too worn out even to think of weather.
The avalanche announced itself while we slept in a series of lightning strikes, which disrupted our slumber with a crackling that sounded like a giant with huge claws tearing up the sky. Then came a boom, as from a long way off. Then another, closer this time. Then another that sounded like a musket shot.
Now fully awake, we heard chunks of the cornice above us shearing off, breaking, tearing, cracking, the sound earsplitting, and picking up speed as they roared by us tumbling down the bank. You could tell when they were getting close because the ground under us began to shake. No one but the god of thunder himself could have created such a roar. At that moment I was certain I was going to die. Isn’t it odd what comes to your mind at such times? What came into mine was the voice of the Sultan speaking as he had many weeks ago in this very tent while we were encamped at Sivas.
“If I were offered a choice whether to be the god of gunpowder or the god of weather, I would choose weather every time.” That is what he said, Papa. Could he have had a premonition? Knowing your abomination of all forms of soothsaying and augury, I will not pursue this thought.
How long the avalanche lasted, I cannot tell you. I only know it seemed like hours that we lay there in the dark with only the sounds that filtered into the Sultan’s tent to tell us what was happening outside. Each time a piece of the snowbank broke off, there was this aching crack, then the beginnings of a rumble as the slab began to thunder down the mountain, getting bigger and noisier as the ice cake gathered snow and got closer and closer. And there was no way to judge whether it would roar right past your tent or gather you up and bury you alive in the snowpack.
Until that night, Papa, I had never really imagined that I might die. Yet, as we lay there in the path of the monster, aware at every moment that our shelter might be the next to cave in, I was convinced that I would not live to see the sun rise. And here is a strange thing. All I could think was, Please, God, don’t let me die alone so far from home.
By morning, the wind had subsided, but the silence was somehow even more unearthly than the screams in the night. I do believe that I am not the only member of this party who awoke believing that I had died and gone to heaven. After all, we had been told that death by freezing is painless — like a slow, deep descent into sleep. But, after a bit, we could make out the muffled little cracks that ice makes when it starts to thaw. Then, a faint twitter. Are there birds in heaven? I wondered. Then came a shout. Then, a curse. Definitely, this was not heaven. And when we ventured out, what we saw began more and more to resemble hell.
Overnight, great mounds of debris had created hills where none had existed the day before, some man-sized, some large enough to bury several bodies — human and animal. Men drifted through the mist, silent as ghosts. Some managed to find shovels and were clawing away at
the snow trying, beyond all reason, to release a comrade, or pulling with their bare hands at the reins of horses encased in snow. Whole regiments had been buried in the snowpack, along with flocks of animals and innumerable carts and wagons full of supplies, arms, and food.
Everywhere, pieces of canvas waved in the wind like the torn banners of a defeated army. Had it not been for the Sultan — his strength, his comfort, his inspiration — most of us, facing the burial of half our army, would simply have bowed to fate, curled up, and given ourselves over to the lure of painless sleep.
What stays in my mind are the small things. I shall never forget coming out of the tent and seeing directly ahead a pure white shape, similar in form to a sarcophagus, its top surface smooth as satin and marred only by what seemed to be a twig growing out of the center. As we approached, the twig began slowly to wave back and forth, and, lo and behold, when one of the pages jumped on top of the mound to examine it, he announced it was a human finger. No one said a word. All simply scattered in every direction in search of a digging implement, and within moments there was a crew burrowing into the snow to release the owner of the finger.
The body appeared as if conjured by a magician — a hand, an arm, an ear, a lock of hair. Pouring sweat, snow flying wildly, we were finally rewarded with a grunt. Whoever it was, was alive.
We kept on digging even after the grunting ceased and we couldn’t hear any breathing noises. Without being told, we somehow understood that seconds were important. I know that all of us were praying while we dug. And, as if in answer, a face came into view. It was the face of Selim, the youngest of the pages, who must have headed out into the night for the latrine, his need stronger than his fear. He was unconscious and did not appear to be breathing.
Behind me, Ahmed Pasha shouldered aside the diggers who had now stopped digging and were staring at the bluish face, transfixed. Ahmed was barely recovered from his seizure, but he managed to jump in beside Selim’s lifeless body and scoop his fingers into the boy’s mouth to clear it of snow. Whereupon, miraculously, with a weak cough, Selim sputtered back to life.
It must have been the cheer that echoed up and down the valley that drew the attention of the Sultan, who appeared just in time to see Selim open his eyes.
“My compliments, Chief Interpreter.” The Sultan swept his caftan over the snow in a rare gesture of respect for another human being. “If this boy had been buried many minutes longer, he would surely have died.” Then, turning, he bowed to us. “To all of you, my congratulations. By saving your colleague, you have bested the avalanche.”
The Sultan’s tone was even, his voice strong. From that moment we knew that we were destined to wrestle ourselves free from the jaws of the monster, no matter what else it had in store for us.
A troop of Janissaries was dispatched to dig a path the length of the encampment, which they accomplished with amazing speed. (Never again will I make fun of those little spades they dangle at their waists.) By noon the line of march was in touch with itself, and reports were beginning to come to the Sultan from both the head of the line and the rear. The snow had inflicted its damage in a wanton — godlike, you might say — manner, burying the food supplies but sparing the hospital tent and the pigeon coops and the treasury. (Was I the only page who thought of King Midas starving to death because everything he touched turned to gold?)
By the end of the day, the Sultan’s fatwa was being passed on up and down the valley reassuring all that, although our food wagons were lost, we were not condemned to death by starvation. We were in real need of only three things, said the fatwa: food, water, and warmth. For water, Allah had provided us with an unlimited supply of snow to melt, for which we must offer a prayer of thanks. Allah had already split loads of broken trees to be gathered for firewood, the fatwa continued. And tomorrow, with Allah’s help, the Sultan promised us food.
“Look up at the side of the mountain, through the break in the cornice,” he ordered us.
All we could see was a forest of shattered trees. Then one of the pages spoke. “The forest is destroyed, sire.”
“Correct. However, it remains the home of birds. And where there are birds there are gazelles, ibexes, and certainly wild pigs for us to eat. All we have to do is hunt them down.”
“But how do we get up there, sire?” another of the pages asked.
“We climb up on the backs of the horses we have left. I will lead the way. I need not remind you that the Osman tribe has been on intimate terms with the horse and saddle for many generations. Long ago my ancestors survived the steppes of central Asia by their hunting skills. And, to this very day, the Ottomans are known to be the finest horsemen in the world.”
“Hear, hear!” echoed through the valley.
“In happier times,” he went on, “we hunted for sport. Now we will hunt for food, the stuff of life itself. Tomorrow at dawn, inshallah.” He lowered his head in reverence. “I will lead you up the side of the mountain to conduct the greatest hunt in history. And I have complete confidence that we will succeed because I am accompanied by a group of hunters renowned in the world.”
The shouting and stamping that followed reverberated against the walls of the pass, giving his words the air of an ancient prophecy. And for the next hour, cheering echoed through the valley each time the fatwa was read out to a section of our bedraggled force.
What the Sultan did not disclose — and what we in the Sultan’s entourage learned only by whispers as the day went by — was that, at the end of the valley, the Janissaries had encountered a wall of snow as high as a small mountain that sealed us off from rescue more effectively than any Persian general could have. Furthermore, the depth and heft of the barrier were far beyond the reach of spades and shovels. Dynamite was needed. And we learned soon enough that, by a twist of fate, our supply of gunpowder had been sent ahead with the Grand Vizier to prepare for the siege of Baghdad. Was it possible that the great army of the Gunpowder Empire would perish in the Zagros passes for lack of explosives to blast its way out? That was the bitter jest that circulated among the pages as we prepared for the grand hunt the following day. Yes, Papa, the Sultan had sent a runner to remind me that, on account of my recent service to him, I was now an invited member of his personal hunting party.
Did I have my weapon with me, he wanted to know. I was able to answer, yes, I did. You know me, Papa. I had slept with my gerit at my side all through the campaign, even during the avalanche. And I was ready to use it. More to come.
Love,
D.
Enclosed, the letter I wrote to you while we were bottled up in the Manisht Pass.
46
THE HUNT
From: Danilo del Medigo, snowbound in the Manisht Pass
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: November 12, 1534
Dear Papa:
Even though our regular courier service has not resumed, the Sultan’s pigeon post may have already brought news to the capital of the big hunt in the Zagros Mountains. But I suspect that there is a part of the story you will never hear as long as Ibrahim the Greek is forwarding the reports. Besides, who knows? I may have forgotten how it went by the time we are freed from this frozen hellhole.
Note that I have written, “by the time we are freed,” not “if we are freed.” For I have no doubt we will be rescued as soon as the Grand Vizier gets news of our entrapment and sends a party of sappers to blast us out. But for now we are still imprisoned by a wall of snow, and as yet there is no sign that anyone is aware of our predicament. You see, the couriers and their horses are boxed in here with us. So our only contact with the rest of the world depends on the carrier pigeons that the Sultan always insists on bringing along just as his ancestors did. Clever Sultan. Clever ancestors. Ahmed Pasha says these birds travel eighty miles in four hours, about three times faster than our couriers. Clever pigeons.
Some of the pages �
� more than a few — fear that a second avalanche may engulf us, set off by the noises we make in the forest with our muskets while we hunt for food. As if a burst of gunfire could unleash a snowslide. Some people will believe anything.
What I did find slightly alarming is that this morning the Sultan issued each of us an oilskin envelope into which anyone who wished to do so could insert his last will and testament, to be strapped on his person. I need not dwell on what this gesture implies. But I assure you, Papa, I do not intend to be found frozen to death with my last will and testament stuck to my chest. Besides, I have nothing to leave behind except an eyewitness account of this accursed campaign, so why not write about it? I urge you to keep these scribblings of mine in a safe place for the children that I know I will someday produce. But if by some chance we do not get out of here safely, please make sure that my horse, Bucephalus, is treated well and not put down until his natural lifespan has been lived out. That is my testament.
You know as well as anyone how much it meant to me to be included in the Sultan’s hunting party. I found myself whistling as I set about my preparations. But while I was sharpening my gerit, my mind was invaded by a vision, not a dream but like a dream. I was on my horse, moving through a forest knee-deep in leaves, nothing stirring. Then came a rustling in the brush and a brutish head thrust through the branches. It was a wild boar coming at me head-on, and I was paralyzed with fear because I had no idea how to kill it.
You know me, Papa. I am not a pretending sort of person. When I come face to face with new text, I know perfectly well that, given my inadequate scholarly skills and in spite of your efforts and Mama’s to educate me, it will be difficult for me to decipher the meaning. On the other hand, I also know that, when I line up at the shooting range, I am the best marksman in my oda. But, faced with the snorting, snarling creature in my vision, I was suddenly aware that I knew nothing about hunting, and even less about hunting pigs. Cavorting in the riding ring or even in the hippodrome while the crowd cheers on is a far cry from hunting wild animals in the forest. Until now, all my training in horsemanship has been for tilting and racing against other riders in places with fences around them. And there are rules. But in the forest there are no fences. Or rules. Even if there were, I had no time to learn them and no one to teach me. I could hardly wake up Ahmed in the middle of the night and beg him to teach me how to kill a wild pig in a dense forest before morning.
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 33