Shadow of God (8 page)

“And with you,” said the old man, who then lay down upon the sand to sleep a full night in Asia for the very first time in his life.

Riding as hard as the darkness would allow, Abdullah turned his horse south again for the final push to Manisa and the
caravanserai
of his new Sultan. He did not dwell upon the great history beneath his horse’s hooves. Nearly two thousand years before, the young Alexander,
Sikander,
as Abdullah would have known him, had set off from Macedonia to conquer Asia. As Alexander turned south into what would become Turkey, his path was almost exactly that of the young Sipahi. Alexander crossed the water at the very same narrows, and then went by sea to the ancient city of Troy. He ordered his ships to halt, and in full battle armor, plumes flying from his helmet, he leaped into the sea and walked ashore. He drew his sword and plunged it into the soil, declaring that he would plunge the very same sword into the heart of Asia, and conquer her. He stopped at the temple and was shown a shield said to have belonged to the Greek hero, Achilles, son of Zeus. Alexander dropped his own shield, and taking up the shield of his idol, began a journey into Asia that would forever change the face of the earth.

But, the Sipahi dwelled on none of this. He first passed Çanakkale, where Selim’s grandfather, Mehmet, had built the Bowl Fortress to protect the passage through the Dardanelles. Later, toward dawn, he passed the buried ruins of Troy, where Homer told of the pouting rages of Achilles, and of the beauty of Helen, and the infamous wooden horse. But, none of these ancient and historic places did the young Sipahi notice. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed rigidly upon the road ahead; his entire focus on his mission.

The road was flatter now, and the country drier. Water would be a problem unless he stopped at every opportunity. At each springfed creek or late-summer rivulet, Abdullah would rest his horse and both would drink together. He kept his water bottle topped off at every opportunity. He ate little from his bags, hoping to make the food last until he was very near to Manisa. He was finding it difficult to stay awake in the saddle as the second night opened onto dawn. He dared not sleep, for though there was little fear of falling from the saddle—he had slept many times in such a position—there was still the threat of highwaymen. When he rode with his corps of Sipahis at his side, he could doze and wake, knowing that his brothers would guard his flank. But, now he was by himself, and he alone was responsible for his own safety…and perhaps that of the realm.

Abdullah pushed still further south through the historic and turbulent lands of Asia Minor. There were olive groves along the wayside, but he never stopped to pick the remnants of the summer’s crop. Long stretches of arid, rocky ground were intermingled with green and rolling hills. He kept to the coast, for though this was longer in miles, he could push his horse harder over the flat land, avoiding the mountainous terrain of the interior. Each river they forded gave both horse and rider a refreshing bath and new energy. But, by the third day their energy was flagging badly. The horse stumbled more, and needed more rests. Once they fell together while coming down a steep hill. Only the grace of Allah had prevented the horse from rolling over on the young man and crushing him to death.

The rider knew his mount well, and allowed the horse to make decisions as to his own needs for rest. Abdullah dozed more often now in the saddle, despite the risks. He could barely hang on over the last fifty miles. The horse was bleeding from several cuts on his legs that he got from stumbling over rocky terrain. The rider began to lose sense of time and place. But, the two pressed on, the rider driven by the urgency and importance of his mission, the beast by his devotion to his rider.

Finally, on the evening of the third day, the perimeter guard at the
caravanserai
of Suleiman caught sight of a horse and rider staggering slowly toward them. They mounted their fresh animals and
rode out to meet the intruder. Lances and scimitars ready, they rode full gallop to intercept the possible threat to their prince.

Only when they were yards away did the guards recognize the once-proud blue uniform and the sheathed scimitar of the rider as one of their own. The boy had long since lost the plumed white hat that is so easily recognized from afar. One of the Janissaries leaped from his own horse and grabbed the reins from the young man. Instantly, in his confusion, the Sipahi reached for his scimitar, but the Janissary grabbed his wrist and held him firmly in his strong grasp. “Calmly, my friend. There’s no need to draw your weapon. We both serve the Sultan, Selim.”

The Sipahi relaxed his grip. He had no strength left for fighting anyway, and soon realized that he was safe; that he could now deliver his message and remove the heavy weight of the mission from his back.

The Janissaries led the Sipahi’s horse into the
caravanserai
of Suleiman. They brought the young man to the tent of Suleiman’s closest friend and adviser, Ibrahim. The Inner Guard led the boy’s horse away to be fed and rested. The boy staggered along with the help of the Janissary and was led into Ibrahim’s tent. Word had already reached Ibrahim of the Sipahi’s arrival, and he was consumed with curiosity as to what this meant.

Abdullah bowed, and then fell to his knees. Though he was meant to deliver the letter directly to the Sultan, he was unable to resist these men in front of him. He reached into his robes and pulled out the letter that Piri Pasha had given to him; safe delivery of the message was the sole purpose of this terrible ordeal.

The Janissary took the sealed letter and handed it to Ibrahim. Ibrahim stared at the Sipahi for a moment. The boy could not have been more than eighteen, and even through the mud and the grime, his beautiful clear features were striking. Ibrahim unrolled the parchment and held it near to his oil lamp. He read the message in silence, and then moved toward the door. “Bring this young man with me. We must take this to the Master at once. There will be questions, I’m sure.”

Suleiman was awaiting Ibrahim, as he, too, had received word of the arrival of this unusual visitor. He was surprised at how quickly Ibrahim had come to his tent, though his own corps of advisors were already present.

“Come in, my friend. What have we here?”

Ibrahim bowed to Suleiman, and motioned for the guard to bring in the Sipahi. The young man staggered, and then knelt on both knees as he pressed his head to the rich carpet in front of Suleiman. Ibrahim handed his master the parchment, while the boy’s head remained pressed to the ground.

Suleiman unrolled the document and read it to himself. Then, he looked up and read the words aloud.

“The Sword of the House of Osman awaits you at the Tomb of Ayyüb.” Nothing more. There was no signature or seal.

Immediately, the advisers began to talk all at once, some rejoicing that their master was now the Sultan, and others fearing some ruse to get Suleiman away from the safety of his Janissaries.

“Ears deceive, eyes reveal,” one of the advisers said to Suleiman. Many pleaded for him to remain in Manisa, and even to increase his guard.

“Send an emissary. Perhaps, Ibrahim himself,” the other suggested.

Suleiman listened, but didn’t speak. He looked to Ibrahim and raised his eyebrows in question. Then he asked, “Ibrahim? What do you think?”

Ibrahim looked at the note again. Then he turned to the boy, still in a position of prostration before his prince. “What do
you
say? Who wrote this message that you bring to us?”

The Sipahi raised his head, but not his body. He looked at Ibrahim, for he was afraid to meet the eyes of the Son of Selim. “Piri Pasha, himself, has written these words, and Piri Pasha, himself, has commanded me to ride and deliver the message. I have ridden for three days and nights to bring this to you. This, in the name of Allah, I swear to you.”

Suleiman took a bag of gold coins from his table and tossed them to the young man. “Take him away, and see that he is fed and
cared for. Let the
tabip
examine him and see to his needs; and the same for his horse.”

With the help of the guards, the young man rose and backed away from the Son of Selim. He never took his eyes off the floor. Servants took him by the elbows as he was guided backward out of the
serai
. One does not turn one’s back on the Sultan. He was led away to some blankets under an olive tree, while servants were sent to fetch the doctors.

“I think, my lord, that the young man is telling the truth,” Ibrahim said.

“And, why do you think so?”

Ibrahim moved closer to Suleiman. He lowered his voice and said, “If this were a lure to get you from the protection of your guards, I think it would have been clearer. It would have said outright that your father, Selim, is dead; or used the name of Piri Pasha, or his seal. Instead, it only speaks only of the Sword of the House of Osman and the Tomb of Ayyüb.”

Suleiman nodded and walked to the door flap. The Janissaries held the flaps apart. Suleiman walked out into the night with Ibrahim close to his side.

They walked to the olive tree where the boy was lying. “Look, Ibrahim. He has not even the strength to change his clothes or take a little food. He is so deeply asleep I doubt that cannon fire would wake him.”

“Yes, and look. The gold you gave him lies on the ground next to his blanket. He hadn’t even the strength to hide it in his robes. Anyone could steal it.”

Suleiman nodded and returned to the tent. He told his advisers, “The Sultan’s Sipahi has told the truth. My father is dead. I must go to the Tomb of Ayyüb to claim the Sword of the House of Osman. Prepare. We’ll leave at first light.”

The Road from Manisa to Istanbul
September 24th, 1520

Suleiman rode easily on his brown stallion, continuing the fast pace he had kept up since dawn. He, too, would follow the level coast road, as had the young Sipahi, to spare the horses and conserve time. His body was synchronized to the rocking gait of his mount, his hands held lightly on the reins. Thousands of hours in the saddle had made him a fine and confident horseman.

He was a thin, wiry young man, with a fine black mustache. He had a long, slender neck and dark, brown eyes, shielded by thick, black eyebrows. He was said to resemble his great-grandfather, Mehmet, more than Selim, and had adopted Mehmet’s habit of wearing his turban low over his forehead, which often gave him a stern and forbidding look. He was reserved and calm most of the time, only showing his father’s temper when circumstances seemed to be getting out of control.

The most remarkable feature of his face was the sharp, hooked nose with its high prominent bridge, reminiscent of his beloved hunting falcons. Of course, no one dared comment about that in his presence.

Though his skin was usually pale, his hands and face were now brown from the hours of riding out in the summer sun with Ibrahim, his Chief Falconer and Master of the Horse. Over the years, Suleiman and Ibrahim had spent long days together riding through
the countryside, with the Janissary guard as far behind them as safety would allow. At those times, Suleiman was tempted to spur his horse ahead, and leave the guard—and the reminder of who he was and who he was about to become—behind him, even if for only a few hours.

Suleiman was just twenty-five years old as he rode back to Istanbul to receive the Sword of the House of Osman. He had gotten his name when his father had opened the
Qur’an
at random and found the name, “Solomon,” to whom God had granted “wisdom and knowledge.” He became a devoted Muslim, though never a fanatic. His tolerance for the Jews and the Christian beliefs were to mark his reign in a time when there was little enough tolerance abroad in the world.

Suleiman had been away from his father and Istanbul for eight years, sent at fifteen to govern in the provinces, to learn the art of ruling as well as the many other facets of the education of a young prince. He studied history, language, law, politics, and his favorite of the arts, goldsmithing. In all those years, he returned to Istanbul to see his father only once, and never could he seek the advice and comfort that most young men found in their fathers. His mother, Hafiza, the
Sultan Valideh
, was also kept far from him, for she remained in Selim’s palace. As Suleiman grew into his manhood, many eyes had watched to see how he would manage the day-to-day governing in these far-off regions of what would someday become his empire. He never liked the feeling that he was always under observation, always being tested. But, such was the lot of an Ottoman prince.