The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  Luckily, the Danilo who had proved himself a quick student of foreign languages proved an equally fast learner in the art of love. Each time he found himself making a move or uttering a word or touching a place that seemed to please his partner, he continued. If he sensed the slightest sign of discomfort or unease, he immediately left off. In short, as he gathered her in his arms and set about to make love to her, his agenda was based not on his own pleasure but on hers.

  It was in that spirit that he began to explore every dimple, every curve, every bone in her perfect body. And he was rewarded by a rush of passionate kisses. But, held back by his fear of hurting or harming her, he found himself unable to summon up the power to break through the membrane that protected her virginity. Then suddenly he was aware of the feel of her hands on his body taking hold of his rigid member and guiding it slowly and carefully through the shoals and shallows of her virgin canal.

  One sudden thrust was all it took to shatter the barrier. Then came her sharp cry. Was it pain or pleasure? Or a mixture of both?

  Of course, there was blood. Fortunately their prior conversation had prepared Danilo for the sight of it, if not the warm ooze that seemed to suffuse his body.

  And wound tightly around each other they now drifted into that warm sea of sensation where two pulsing hearts beat as one.

  When at last they lay back exhausted in each other’s arms, no words passed between them. There was no need. Their bodies spoke for them. Every touch, every sigh, every soft caress spoke a language more intimate than words.

  Then Saida broke the silence. “Before I go —”

  “Not yet,” he begged.

  “Yes, I must. It is time. But allow me one more moment.”

  “It is yours.”

  “I have dreamed of our last night together for a long time,” she began in a quiet voice. “Tonight as I was walking in the dark to meet you I prayed to Allah to make my dream come true. I vowed that if I was granted a single wish, I would live out the rest of my days as an obedient Muslim daughter and wife. All I asked in return was one night of perfect love. Tonight, with Allah’s blessing, you have made my dream come true and given me a gift that only the gods can bestow.”

  “I have done nothing.”

  She interrupted him gently. “Oh, but you have. Did you know that in ancient days the tribes kept a team of experts trained to deflower their virgins? And the deflowerers were well rewarded for their skill.”

  “You’re teasing me again.”

  “No, it’s true. My old lala told me.” But as she told her tale, he could see the glint of mischief in her eyes. What spirit! Her gallantry deserved something more than empty reassurances.

  “I am not a man of words. But I do have a confession,” he offered. “I want to tell you something that I have never told anybody, not even my father.”

  “Go on.”

  “At my bar mitzvah the rabbis told me that coming of age was an initiation ritual, and that I was being inducted into the company of men. I was thirteen years old. I didn’t understand. My true initiation was tonight when I felt your warm blood on my skin, And now I can say to you what you have said to me so many times. You are the love of my life. No matter how many years we spend apart, even if we never see each other again, I am yours forever and you are mine.”

  It was the longest speech he had ever made in his life, and for once it rendered the princess speechless. But all too soon the ever faithful, ever vigilant Narcissus broke into their embrace.

  “You must let me go,” she whispered as she carefully disengaged herself from his arms. “If Hürrem wakes up early from her sleep and finds me gone, we are undone.”

  Left to his own devices, Danilo would have waved off the slave and taken the consequences. But he was no match for the cool head behind the sorrowful eyes.

  “Have you got his papers?” Saida inquired of the eunuch.

  “Everything is in order, Princess. The San Domenico sails after the first prayer, and Captain Loredano is expecting us within the hour,” he replied.

  “Sailing to where?” Danilo asked.

  “To Italy, of course,” answered the princess. “To fulfill your destiny.”

  Try as he might, Danilo could not hide his misery at the prospect of such a fate.

  “You must take comfort knowing that you have given me my heart’s desire,” she counseled. “But remember” — she fixed him with a piercing stare — “I am the one condemned to a loveless life ever after. For you it is not the same. You will have other loves.”

  When he opened his mouth to deny it, she placed her fingers tenderly over his lips. “I know you. You love glory. You love your horse.” She reached up through the straw to pat the horse’s flank. “It is a good question which of us you most regret leaving, me or Bucephalus.” Then she added, “So I have found a way to take care of Bucephalus for you after you have disappeared.” She smiled sweetly. “When you are gone, I will get my father to give the horse to me.” She paused for maximum effect. “As a wedding present.” She giggled like a naughty child. “That way Bucephalus and I can cry over you together. I will bring him carrots every day in my husband’s stable and we will talk about how much we miss you. I know he will be a great comfort to me.”

  And then, with a fleeting smile, she twisted away and was gone. But before he had a chance to miss her, she was back with a final warning: “Under no circumstances can you leave the stables — or even think of returning to your father’s house — until Narcissus returns to spirit you away to the Galata dock. That is where the Italian galleon awaits you.”

  “But I cannot leave without saying goodbye to my father.” On that, he was determined to stay firm.

  “Have you not heard a word I’ve said? The Doctor’s House is surrounded by men with orders to shoot you on sight.”

  “I can’t run away like a thief in the night.”

  “If you will not do this for yourself, do it for your father. He cannot be thought of as having anything to do with your escape. I know the doctor. He is an honest man and a bad liar. What he knows, he cannot hide. If you told him where you were going, he would give us away while he was trying to protect you. His safety depends on his not knowing anything of our plan. He will be heartbroken. He may even go to my father for help in finding you. If he does, that will help to convince the Sultana and the Grand Vizier that he had no part in your escape, and he will be safe from them. For his sake make no effort to return to his house to say goodbye.”

  “But —”

  She cut him off firmly. “Maybe someday in the future the Grand Vizier will die — he certainly has it coming. But for now you need to keep yourself out of his reach. In Italy, you will be safe from him and all of us in this Byzantine court.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me. Remember, my love, I am the daughter of a king. I was named for the prophet’s granddaughter. I have loyalties beyond my own desires.”

  “But you have put yourself in mortal danger on my account.”

  She gazed at him fondly. “I have done nothing to betray my father. My conscience is clear. And I have realized my heart’s desire. Now promise me you will not risk a trip to the Doctor’s House. It is bad enough for me to have to live the rest of my life with an absent lover. I don’t think I could manage it with a dead one.”

  He promised. And she was gone.

  60

  MEMORIES

  Danilo had given his word to Princess Saida not to leave the safety of the stable. But there were things in his father’s house that he would not — could not — leave behind. So as soon as he was certain the princess was out of sight, he crept cautiously out of the stable into the black night. Saida might be a girl brought up to know the ways of the harem, but he was a boy brought up to know the secret places of Topkapi Palace — places like the grape arbor in the garden of the Doctor’s House that would shield an i
nterloper from detection as he crawled through a certain cellar window that was never locked.

  This was the knowledge that came to play as he moved silently along the familiar path to his father’s house, inched through the window, crept up the cellar stairs past the doctor’s curtained door, and sneaked into the doctor’s study.

  There he mounted the set of library steps beside the bookcase and, agile as a monkey, reached up to the very top shelf for a rolled-up painted canvas tucked behind a bound set of The Letters of Marcus Aurelius. It was his mother’s portrait rendered by Andrea Mantegna. Beside it sat the familiar cloth-of-gold book bag in which his mother’s secret book was kept, tied with a velvet ribbon.

  His next stop was the blanket chest in his bedroom, where he retrieved the jeweled dagger he had received with the Sultan’s blessing on the day of the boar hunt. Then he stooped to loosen his girdle and to carefully wrap a canvas around his body. And after securing the book in its gold bag around his neck, he made for the cellar stairs.

  As he approached the door of the doctor’s room he was hit by an urge to take a chance and embrace the father he might never see again. But if Saida was right, as she so often was, that might be putting his father in danger.

  With a sigh and a shake of the head, he resisted the impulse and threaded his way, without mishap, out of sight of the foot patrols that surrounded the house. He didn’t look back until he was cuddled up in the straw of Bucephalus’s stall, ready to be found when Narcissus came to fetch him just before dawn.

  “Psst! Wake up! And take off your pants.”

  “But —”

  “No time for buts.” The slave held out a hand to help the sleepy page to his feet. “Your ship sails at sun-up and Italian captains are never tardy.”

  “But I don’t need —”

  “Oh, yes, you do.” The eunuch reached into the carpet bag hanging on his arm and held out a pair of sky-blue pants. “Put these on.”

  “They’re blue,” Danilo protested.

  “What did you expect? Violet? That’s for Armenians. Sky blue is the Jew color. And remember this: aboard the San Domenico you are the Jewish son of a Jewish merchant traveling home to Italy from Persia.”

  Once again the slave rummaged around in his satchel and this time brought forth a pair of sky-blue slippers. “The princess went to a great deal of trouble to get these dyed for you.”

  Reluctantly, Danilo took off his precious yellow slippers. “Can I wear my caftan at least? The Sultan gave it to me when I rode for him in the hippodrome.”

  The eunuch stood back to consider this. “What kind of a merchant wears a brocade caftan with a miniver lining?”

  Years of living under constant surveillance had sharpened the page’s ability to invent quick responses. “A rich Jewish merchant,” he answered without a pause. “He would be bringing the caftan home to show off in the marketplace.” Then he added, “Rich merchants get themselves dressed up in Italy,” trying to sound as if he actually knew from personal experience how rich merchants comported themselves in Italy. Then, seeing no improvement in the eunuch’s doubtful countenance, he added, “The Mediterranean is a very cold sea. I don’t think your mistress would like me to catch a fever and die out there without a cloak.”

  “Very well. Wear the caftan. This is for your head,” he said, holding out a square black headpiece with silk fringes hanging from the corners.

  Danilo understood the rules of games: you win some, you lose some. He held out his hand gamely, but as he placed the hat on his head he made a counter demand: “You understand I must carry my gerit with me.”

  “You must not,” the slave replied with equal conviction. “Jew merchants do not travel with lances.” Clearly, the point was not negotiable. But then, because even a stone would be moved by the picture of dejection on the proud young face, the slave added, “You can buy a new weapon in Italy. You will be well able to afford it. Now put on the hat.”

  “Can’t I even wear my turban?”

  “This hat is a Jew hat. Wear it. And keep your blond Frankish hair hidden. The princess wanted me to give you a henna rinse, but there isn’t time. So keep the Jew hat on at all times. Which reminds me . . .” Once again the eunuch dove into his capacious bag. “You don’t want to get this stuff in your eyes. It stings.”

  He uncapped a small jar, and Danilo began to feel the fat fingers dabbing away at his face with a greasy concoction that he could see through his half-closed eyes was the color of mud.

  Finally, with his wardrobe complete, his fair hair tucked into his fringed hat, and his light skin browned to a deep tan, Davide dei Rossi, the dark-complexioned son of a merchant from Mantova, followed his minder out into the night and down the steep path to the shore of the Bosphorus.

  There a dilapidated barge awaited, a craft too decrepit to attract attention even at this ungodly hour. The bargeman had received his orders not to cross the Bosphorus directly but to deposit his passengers well below the Galata docks. Taking the roundabout way, the barge dipped south of the Sultan’s marble quay into the quiet waters of the Golden Horn, where it was tied up at the royal shipworks, a yard certain to be deserted until after the first morning prayer.

  Once on shore, the bulky eunuch and the swarthy Jew page turned into the warren of back alleys, where the only sound to be heard in the silent night was the raucous cry of the night watchman and the tip-tap of his staff on the cobbles as he made his way past the massive warehouses that lined these lanes. As the furtive pair crept along they began to hear the first sounds of the day: the spitting of camels, the meowing of cats, and the occasional plop of a wet fish being landed. Danilo felt something soft against his ankle — a cat, one of the hundreds that scavenged the docks. He was tempted to kick it aside, but on second thought if he did it would probably squeal and give them away.

  At the turn into the quay stood a Greek charcoal burner with a face as black as hell — and a heart, they say, to match. And straight ahead, Danilo found himself facing a galleon clearly identified by the legend on the side of the prow: San Domenico.

  Beside him in the shadows, Narcissus pointed at the gangway. Stationed there, ramrod straight and fully armed, stood one of the Sultana’s Men in Black, his head encased in a dark woolen face-mask, his musket cocked.

  Was this a single sentry, one of many scattered around the city to search out a treasonous page? Was he stationed by the ship because the eunuch’s plan had been discovered? Believing the worst, Narcissus gave Danilo the sign of defeat — palms to the sky, head bowed. But Danilo del Medigo was, as his Albanian riding master once observed, of the breed that never gave up. Motioning the slave back into the shadows, the page leaned down and took a kick at the cat, which squealed.

  “Are you mad?” Narcissus barked. “The masked man will come to get us.”

  “Exactly.” For the first time in a long evening of submissions, Danilo took command. “Do as I say. When he comes over to investigate, poke your head out and back — just enough to decoy him.”

  “He will kill us both.” The slave was shaking with fear.

  “I can take him,” Danilo insisted.

  “Are you blind?” Narcissus pointed to the musket. “He’s armed.”

  “So am I.” Danilo reached into the folds of his girdle for the jeweled dagger hidden in a scabbard at his waist. “The Sultan promised me that if I kept this weapon with me it would always protect me. All you have to do is give that guard a quick sight of you to get him over here. I will do the rest.”

  With that, he gave the cat another kick. The cat squealed.

  This time the guard took the bait. Weapon aimed, he marched across the quay to where Danilo and Narcissus were hidden in the shadows of the warehouse.

  “Step out, whoever you are! Step out or I will shoot!”

  Danilo took a swing at Narcissus’s backside, forcing him to straighten up and show a flash of white
turban. The sentry stepped into the darkness, his weapon pointed at the slave’s white turban. As he lunged for the headpiece, a lithe figure sprang out with a dagger held high to stab the masked man full force in the chest. Once, twice . . . On the third thrust the guard collapsed into a shapeless puddle of blackness.

  Moving slowly and with great care, Narcissus knelt beside the body, placed his ear against the sentry’s open mouth, gave a nod, yanked the dagger out of the dead man’s wound, wiped the blood off on his pant leg, and held it out to Danilo.

  “You may be needing this on your journey,” he muttered. “Now help me.” He grabbed the inert body by the feet and started to drag it into the closest doorway. “This body will stay out of sight here until after the first prayer. By the time these places open you will be far away sailing over the Sea of Marmora.”

  Little glints of sun were beginning to shine through the early morning clouds, but not brightly enough to light up the two shadowy figures creeping across the wide swath of boardwalk and slithering up the gangway onto the anchored San Domenico.

  The slave led the way along the lower deck to the stern of the ship and the ship’s castle, a small, stout three-storied turret. On the top tier of the little tower sat the wheel the helmsman used to guide the vessel. The level below housed the crew’s eating table surrounded by sheepskins that served as seats by day and mattresses by night. A few steps below deck there was a small round cabin with no portholes called the pizola, a room normally reserved for the use by the ship’s owners. It was small and airless, to be sure, but the most private and comfortable space on the vessel, and, as Narcissus was at pains to explain to Danilo, it had been made available for his comfort at some cost.

  “Captain Loredano has been well paid to carry you safely ashore at Venice,” he pointed out.

  “Venice?” Until this moment Danilo had given no thought to his destination. “I was thinking the port of Rome.”

  “Rome is where the pope lives. You will be much safer in Venice. Think yourself lucky. If San Domenico were bound for Genova you would be spending at least two extra weeks at sea.”