Well, Papa, there was enough gunpowder in that sack to blast a giant gap in the snow wall. And the next morning we all marched out of the Manisht Pass in single file to freedom.
When the blast went off, the butcher stood in a place of honor at the right hand of the Sultan, the place normally occupied by the Grand Vizier. Only this time Ibrahim the Greek was supplanted by Orhan the butcher, hoisted on the shoulders of the Janissaries by the Sultan’s order and conveyed to the end of the pass while the crowd cheered him almost as loudly as they had applauded me earlier. They had a new hero now.
On the far side of the pass, the villagers had been alerted by the explosion and were lined up on both sides of the path, their arms full of fruits and bread and pure white yogurt in gourds. They knew we would be hungry. The army stayed two days at their invitation, bathing and eating and giving thanks, while I sat tucked up in my downy quilt being visited and cosseted by my comrades. Prince for a day.
More tomorrow,
D.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Abi-Nerin
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: November 27, 1534
Dear Papa:
Here is what it is like to be a hero. The admiration and praise are sweet. But then comes the bitter aftertaste.
The Grand Vizier Ibrahim has arrived with his rescue team — a little late. Very soon after his arrival, he paid me a visit at my tent. He brought with him a purse full of coins from the Sultan, which I refused to accept. I handed it back to him and thanked him politely but explained that I had done nothing more than my duty and that every man there would have been honored to do the same service if he had been in my place. Believe me, Papa, this sentiment came straight from my heart. But it caused the Grand Vizier to grab me by the shoulders with venom shooting out from his eyes.
“Do you not know that no one refuses the Sultan’s gifts?” he demanded. “The gifts that the Sultan offers for services rendered are his way of erasing any debt that he may have incurred. The Sultan can remain under obligation to no man. Are you so ill-bred that no one taught you that such a refusal is an insult?”
Without waiting for my answer he began to shake the bag in my face. “Or is this some Jewish ploy to get the Padishah to raise the sum of your reward? Is that it?”
I was too astonished to answer. But whatever he saw on my face made him tighten his grip and lower his voice to a steely tone.
“Well, my boy, your ploy may well succeed. Perhaps I may be ordered to bring you a new purse that contains twice the amount of coins than the one you so disrespectfully returned. But do not rush to congratulate yourself on the cleverness of your scheme. You may have multiplied your takings this time, but you have much to learn, boy.” He took my head in his hands and glared at me. “I thought I had made it clear to you after the episode at Tabriz that there is no room in the Padishah’s suite for showy gestures on the part of underlings. Are you deaf? Are you a slow learner? Or are you just stiff-necked? That is what God called your people when they challenged him. Stiff-necked. But, be warned, this is the last time you will give offence to the Padishah and not suffer severe consequences.”
With that he whirled out of the room. And now, I sit here in my tent, disgraced and cheated of the only prize I ever wanted — not gold or even thanks, just recognition that I had some small part in our victory over nature in the Manisht Pass. Instead, I have coins thrown at me as if I were a dog. And I sit here alone, humiliated, and, Papa, there are tears in my eyes.
As I write, a scene comes into my mind: a picture of Achilles alone on the beach at Troy, weeping as he watches the beautiful young virgin he earned as his prize for his victory at Lyrnessus, being led away from his lodge into the arms of King Agamemnon. With her goes the honor he earned in battle, snatched from him by an envious rival.
“The man disgraces me,” Achilles cries aloud in anguish. “He should at least give me respect, but now he gives me nothing.”
Raising his arms to the heavens, Achilles reaches up to his mother, the goddess Thetis, for solace.
At that moment I found myself raising my arms to heaven. And I swear I heard my mother whisper my name as Achilles’ mother did. But, even as I implored her, I knew that, like Thetis, she was powerless to change the course of events. For, as the poet says, no one controls the honors bestowed by a king.
So here I sit sulking in my tent, reminding myself of Achilles on the beach. He was good at war. A lot better than I am. And, by some odd coincidence, he too was robbed of his prize. But there ends the likeness. For I am resolved never again to play the role of Achilles to the Grand Vizier’s Agamemnon. Never!
Good night, Papa.
D.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Abi-Nerin
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: November 29, 1534
Dear Papa:
At last the Tigris, the oldest river in the world. You cannot look at it drifting by, as I am now doing, and not get a new lease on life.
Also, I was somewhat lifted out of the miseries inflicted on me by the Grand Vizier when Ahmed Pasha took pity on me after I confided in him. His judgments are often harsh, but they are always just. He listened to my tale of woe without comment, and when I came to the end, he pulled twice on his beard and responded in a way I would have taken ill from another person, but I have come to know his stern manner cloaks a warm heart.
“My boy, there is no question that an injustice has been done you,” he began. “But, believe me, worse things have happened to nicer people. Remember,” he reminded me, “that you did not embark on this venture in search of glory but to add experience to your education. You wanted to visit the palaces of the caliphate and you will. You wanted to sail the waters of the oldest rivers in the world and you will.” And, to be sure, today I am sitting on the banks of the Tigris with the towers of Baghdad just visible in the distance and feeling — I can’t say how I feel, Papa — awed, maybe?
After we blew a hole in the ice barrier at Abi-Nerin there followed three days of slogging through the Amara marshes, a thicket of reeds six feet high in chest-deep water, a great trial for the animals but perfectly calm and safe for those of us on their backs. Then just when we were beginning to think ourselves becalmed in the reeds forever, we came upon a broad thoroughfare full of carts and wagons and people — strolling, running, walking free with huge heavy sacks on their heads — all moving along the riverside of the great Tigris, the most ancient waterway in the world, a waterway that I had never in my life even hoped to see. The river was teeming with every kind of craft from graceful gondolas to great sailing ships packed to the hilt with cargo — silks and satins and fur pelts, gold and silver, pepper and spices with names I have heard of but never tasted. I swear to you, Papa, as I watched those crates sail by, the fragrance of cinnamon and cloves and coriander wafted by my nose and I could taste on my tongue the tang of saffron.
You might point out that, from where I sat on the shore, I could not even see the cargo bales in the holds of those ships, much less smell or taste what is in them. But I did, Papa. I did. And every taste and sniff reminded me that the world is full of wonders yet to come. All I need to do is turn my head southward, and I can see ahead the towers of Baghdad.
Will we be welcomed at the gates or shot at? Our spies are not agreed. But don’t worry, Papa. I still have my place in the Sultan’s guard, surrounded on all sides by Janissaries, just as you were when you campaigned with him. And you know that is the safest place in the world to be.
Love,
D.
48
BAGHDAD
From: Sultan Suleiman, encamped at Baghdad
To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace
Date: December 4, 1534
My Regent:
The long march is over. Baghdad is officially ours. Once again, a Sunni ghazi sits on the golden thron
e of Persia. The Shiite shah cowers behind the far eastern mountains of his empire. Yes, victory is ours. But sadly, the conqueror does not have his queen at his side. However, he takes comfort in knowing that this triumph resounds throughout the world to the glory of the Ottoman name, while in Istanbul there sits a Regent dedicated heart and soul to the future interests of his empire and his family.
Signed by the Sultan
Beneath, an invisible encryption:
Under Allah’s watchful eye the Great Ghazi’s life has been preserved and the jihad has been saved from disaster. With renewed hope of victory for the jihad comes new hope for the page who made the thrust that saved his ghazi. Surely, this deed will raise him to the heights of his heart’s desire.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Baghdad
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: December 4, 1534
Dear Papa:
Finally, we are encamped in fabled Baghdad. I assume word has reached you that the city fell to us without a shot. Quite so. Tahmasp’s governor, Mehmet Khan, met us at the gates accompanied by a cortège of nobles to escort our army into the city. Once again this province is back in Sunni hands and our Sultan sits officially as the Caliph of Baghdad, seated high on a solid gold throne in the caliph’s carpeted throne room, wielding the caliph’s scepter and wearing the caliph’s crown.
In the midst of all this grandeur, there is no place for me. The Sultan is fully occupied with readying the restored province of Baghdad for its place in the Ottoman Empire. Already he has organized the government of the new province under an Albanian pasha — also named Suleiman — and has bolstered him against future Persian attacks from the east with a garrison of one thousand harquebusiers and one thousand cavalry. He is also building a citadel to repel the shah, should he return to Iraq, and has assigned a total of 32,000 troops to guard the province. All of this, says Ahmed Pasha, may well make Iraq the most expensive to maintain of all the provinces in the Ottoman Empire.
But Baghdad is still Baghdad. So each day, I mount my horse and I set out to see what is to be seen while I await a summons from the Sultan. Sadly, little of ancient Baghdad remains. Of course, the fabled city had lost much of its splendor long before we got here. Genghis Khan is said to have razed it to the ground just a few hundred years ago. And Tamerlane, they say, decimated the population a hundred years later. But great cities somehow stay alive, don’t they? And, ravaged or not, this city, built on the bricks of ancient Babylon, has the air of a place held aloft by the sheer power of history. The souk is still soaked with the scent of cardamom. And the streets still hum with the accents of Arabs, Russians, Aramaeans, Turks, Jews, Christians, Nubians, Laristanis, and all the rest who keep trade flowing between east and west.
But as day follows day with no word from the royal enclosure, I cannot help but believe that I have unwittingly done something to offend the Sultan. And I wonder if, as the cynics say, no good deed goes unpunished. For in my admittedly sketchy knowledge of the history of kings, I cannot find a single instance when the act of saving a king’s life (and I did save his life) is rewarded with stony silence and disfavor. I find it more and more difficult to keep myself ready for the summons that never comes.
Truthfully, Papa, I am very discouraged.
Your loving son,
D.
From: Danilo del Medigo at Baghdad
To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace
Date: December 13, 1534
Dear Papa:
Finally, today, for the first time since we arrived in Baghdad, I was summoned to the Sultan’s apartments in the traditional residence of the great caliphs of history and legend. At Tabriz, Tahmasp fled too hurriedly to carry anything away with him. Here at Baghdad, he had time to pack up, or smash up, every portable thing in the palace. So what greeted us on arrival were bare walls and empty rooms. But not for long. Knowing the Persians, our foresighted leader anticipated finding his captured strongholds stripped bare, even burned. And so now I am beginning to comprehend what filled up the hundreds of wagons and carts that made up the bulk of the Sultan’s personal caravan. Pillows! I swear to you, Papa, I have never seen so many pillows and carpets and braziers and lamps and lanterns crammed into one space, each of them so carefully packed that not a single pane of glass was shattered in transit. And enough of them to fill, beyond overflowing, the confines of the Baghdad selamlik where the likes of Harun al-Rashid and Saladin ate, bathed, took their leisure, and greeted their guests in the glory days of the caliphate.
I thought of you, Papa, when I took my place beneath the caliphs’ ancient throne and gazed upward into the huge green cupola that shelters the ruler’s throne, still awesome after centuries of neglect. Standing there, I remembered you putting me to sleep with stories of olden times when Baghdad was the most powerful city in the world, the heart of an empire that stretched from the Mediterranean to India. And Mama stuffed me with the doings of Harun al-Rashid, the caliph who rewarded poets for a good sonnet with gold pieces, Greek slave girls, and horses from his royal stables. Can you imagine the Christian emperor giving a valuable horse to a poet? As you have often told me, Papa, things do come to those who wait. But not, I have found, necessarily good things. So, yes, I was called. And treated kindly. But I was also dismissed. Not by the Padishah himself but by the Grand Vizier, who had apparently been delegated to deal with me.
During my audience, the Sultan continued to consult with his pages in another corner, leaving me to the mercies of Grand Vizier Ibrahim. Mind you, the Grand Vizier was very polite. The Padishah, in deep gratitude for my quickness and agility during the avalanche in the Zagros Mountains, he explained, was graciously granting me a fully honorable discharge from his service and a quick return to my ailing parent, plus a second purse of gold.
For a moment I stood stunned, clutching the heavy purse that the Grand Vizier had thrust into my hand. Then I found myself walking as if propelled by an unseen hand toward the Sultan at the other end of the room. As you well know, Papa, one does not approach the Padishah unless invited, yet I heard my own voice issuing from my throat as I sank to my knees and kissed the hand that had bestowed the coins and thanked him for it.
“However,” I explained, looking the Sultan full in the face, “I cannot accept a reward for such a small service after the many benefactions you have bestowed upon me. What I did was nothing more than what duty demanded. But, sire, the skill I used to kill that animal, the skill for which you have so generously praised me, I learned through your good offices, in your schools, which I attended at your invitation.”
I waited. When no one came forward to garrote me with a silken bowstring, I plunged on. “It is I who owe you thanks, sire — for my excellent education, my equestrian training, my language skills. Under your generous benefaction, I have enjoyed schooling that would be the envy of any boy in the world. As for these past months in your campaign retinue, I will remember them all the rest of my life with gratitude for the wisdom I have received from your own lips.”
From his expression, I gathered that I had not entirely displeased the Sultan with my unauthorized utterances. But I also knew that, since this might well be my only chance to speak face to face with him, I had better get to it before I was hustled off. Thus far, the royal pages had been so taken aback by my audacity that they had made no moves. The Grand Vizier simply glowered.
“With your assent, sire,” I continued, “I would, however, ask one single indulgence . . .” If he indicated the affirmative, I was, as we say in the stables, home and dry. If not, I was cooked. But what did I have to lose other than a packet of gold coins?
Fortuna was with me that day. The Sultan nodded graciously. He even spoke.
“Ask what you will,” he said.
“All I want in the world, great Padishah,” I told him, “is to remain in your service, to finish out this campaign with my comrades, and to return home victorious in
your train.”
As I had hoped it would, my offer so pleased the Sultan that he announced in a booming voice, “Request granted and double the purse.” Whereupon he went on to acknowledge what he called my extraordinary service at the hunt right there in front of the entire court. And as I prepared to back away he added, “Such loyal service as yours calls for a reward beyond mere coins to mark the place you have earned in my heart.” Then, with a nod to his Grand Vizier, “Tomorrow we will search for a place in our entourage where such skill and devotion are made full use of.”
And to be sure, today I was summoned again. There was no mistaking, I was once again in the Sultan’s favor. Had I any doubts, his greeting when I arrived at his audience tent the next day was, if not effusive, at least cordial. More than cordial. He actually rose from his nest of pillows to greet me. “We are having a discussion on how to deal with the Persians from now on,” he advised me, as if speaking to an old friend or a trusted advisor. “And it occurred to me,” he went on, oblivious of the Grand Vizier’s annoyance, “that we might learn something from the eastern campaigns of īskender, who was faced with similar choices. We are, after all, walking in his footsteps. Do you by chance have a helpful passage from Arrian’s Life of İskender firmly in your memory, my boy?”
Did I? No, I did not. Should I admit the imperfections of my scholarship or should I prepare to bluff it out in case I was called upon to recite whole passages from Arrian? Too risky, I thought. Better stick with the truth.
“My memory is imperfect, sire. But the text itself is in my cabinet only a few steps away along the corridor.”
“Go get it at once,” the Sultan ordered. Then, before I had time to make it to the door, “No, stop. My business with the Grand Vizier is done for the night. Bring the Arrian manuscript to my bed within the hour. You can read me to sleep.”
The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi Page 35