The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (34 page)

From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

To: The
Ghazi
Sultan Suleiman en route, received at Maltepe

Date: June 14, 1534

My Adored Sultan and Master:

Five days without you are like four months. Every day the children ask, “Why is Papa not here? When will he come back to us?” They are too young to understand that their papa is a
ghazi,
and that when the
jihad
calls he must obey its summons.

It ill behooves me to complain of my lot to you who gives his very life out of duty to his people. But since you have raised me to the exalted state of Empress and have honored me by naming me Regent in your absence, you have also, my adored husband, laid upon me a set of grave responsibilities far beyond my meager ability. Not only must I perform as a regent worthy of your confidence, but also as guardian, in your absence, of our much loved children. In these endeavors I am sorely in need of all the support I can muster. We have already learned the importance of a confidential secretary who will be completely loyal to me, and I thank Allah daily for having found such a one in the Princess Saida. She is a pillar of strength to me. But, sadly, though she faithfully makes the journey across town each afternoon from the harem to serve me here in Topkapi, I regret my inability to call on her assistance, should the occasion arise, when I need her in the morning or in the evening. But she is unwavering in her determination to live out a full year of mourning for her grandmother in the Valide’s suite at the Old Palace.

Surely no man has been more faithful in observance of his mourning duties than you. Yet only three months after the Valide’s untimely death, you answered the call of duty and rode off to war against the infidel Shah of Persia. I have pointed out to our mourning princess that she too has a duty, hers being the care of her younger brothers and sisters as she readies herself for marriage — far too long delayed — to a husband of your choosing, thus giving you, as a future son-in-law, a
damat
bound to us by blood and also a future vizier of proven loyalty.

It is not as if she is enjoying her mournful life. I am told that she cries herself to sleep at night, driven to tears by the loss of her grandmother, whose love she still craves but who is lost to her and cannot be restored. The only solution is for her to forego her observances and take up her womanly duties as a wife and mother and the bearer of Ottoman sons.

Preparation for such a momentous event takes time. The bride’s trousseau must be ordered — think of this: every pearl in the train must be hand-sewn — a palace must be purchased, and a suitable staff assembled for the household of a princess and her husband, the Sultan’s
damat.
I have begun to assemble a list of worthies for this great honor, so all that remains for you to do when you arrive home — oh, blessed day! — is pick the one you favor, as is your rightful duty, and announce the wedding date.

Please write or I will die.

Signed,

Your Sultana

At the bottom of this letter is an encrypted message. A quick pass over the page with a lighted taper reveals these words:

The princess is driven to tears by longing for the one whose love she
craves, not a love forever lost but a love being kept alive by a magic taper.

30

ELMADAĞ

From: Danilo del Medigo at Elmadağ

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: June 17, 1534

Dear Papa:

We have stopped at the base of a mountain for two days to take advantage of the excellent hunting in the surrounding forests. Not only birds abound here but deer, antelope, and even wild boar. When I heard this, I barely slept for thinking of bringing down a large animal with my
gerit
. Being a member of the Fourth
Oda
, it did not occur to me that I might not be invited to join the Sultan’s hunting party along with my fellow pages. But as I was readying myself for my first royal hunt, my superior officer, Ahmed Pasha, the Chief Interpreter, pulled me aside to tell me that I must stay behind. It seems that the Sultan’s undertaking to you that I would not bear arms during my service to him precluded my participation in the hunt.

“But that was in the cause of war,” I protested, to no avail. So at dawn this morning my fellow pages rode off without me, every hoofbeat a blow to my heavy heart. Papa, I know you do not share my enthusiasm for horses or for sport. And I understand that this prohibition against my carrying arms is meant to keep me safe. But must I look forward to a year or more of being singled out from my comrades and kept in my tent like a backward child? If so, it sets me to wondering if the conditions under which I am traveling in the Sultan’s army are perhaps too stringent for me. I am resigned to my alien status as the Jew Page because of my religion, but the prospect of being despised by the comrades I eat with and sleep with and ride with every day as a weakling who cannot wield a
gerit
fills me with dread.

That is why I am begging you, Papa, to revise the conditions of my service to the Sultan. At least to allow me to take part in any
gerit
contest along the road and in any other non-military sports such as hunting. As it is, I lay on my bunk all morning feeling useless and friendless and hopeless. Which is where Ahmed found me and took pity on me. Of course, he dare not disobey his master’s orders, but he did have a suggestion that cheered me up. Why, he asked, did I not use these two days to acquaint myself with the camp?

“I do have the authority to offer you two days’ leave from your translation work to make a circuit of the camp,” he advised me. “Nobody told me you were not allowed to ride your horse. And I would estimate two days on horseback will give you time to survey the cavalcade from the most forward units at the head to the stragglers at the rear.” Then he added, with a twinkle in his eye, “It is a rare opportunity, my boy, I assure you. I myself did not get a complete view of the line of march until my third campaign. And you may never have this chance again.”

It was, as an Italian would say, an offer too good to refuse. So I pulled on my boots, filled up my water bottle, saddled my horse, and set off to learn something of this expedition of which I am a part, yet not a part.

Following Ahmed’s advice, I decided to begin at the rear, then visit every section of the cavalcade from back to front. As if anyone could hope to accomplish this — and see anything — within two days’ ride. It took only a few hours to make me realize the folly of my plan, as you would know from your extensive experience with this army. But then, owing to your loathing of horses and mules, you may well have been happy to just stay in your tent on your days off.

If so, I will risk boring you by telling you of what I saw today. And please save this letter so that I can bring my adventure back to mind when I am old and nodding by the fire and recounting stories for my grandchildren.

For the record, our route has taken us not too far from the Granicus River, where Alexander first encountered the might of King Darius of Persia in the year 334 BC. In Alexander’s time, this vast countryside of Anatolia that we are passing through so peacefully was in the hands of the Persians. I made a point of this to the Sultan while reading to him from Arrian last night. We both agreed that it would have been interesting to visit īskender’s ancient battlefield at the Granicus. But sadly, said the Padishah, we must move on. Duty calls. However (I remark this for your ears only, Papa), it seems that duty does not call as loudly for a visit to an historic battleground as does the hunting horn.

Myself, I would have been happy to follow Alexander’s way all along the Ionian coast to Caria province, where he stopped to consult an oracle. But it turns out that the Sultan has his own oracle to consult — a Sufi mystic called Rumi, whose grave and shrine are at Konya. Is it not interesting, Papa, that these two great leaders both chose to go out of their way to make certain that the gods were on their side before setting off to conquer Persia? But I am getting away from my purpose . . .

As you know, the camp is planned like a city strung out in a long line of compounds, each unit fenced in by pastures and stables for the animals and assembled into neat rows of tented streets, and each street bordered by trenches, with the Padishah tucked securely into the very center of the line protected by Janissaries at both ends.

Our next-door neighbors in the line of march, a brigade of Janissaries, had already lit their fires when I crossed into their encampment, which appeared astonishingly quiet and peaceable. Nowhere did I see garbage or filth or evidence of gaming or drunkenness. It was hard to believe that I was standing in the midst of a bivouac of battle-hardened foot soldiers, and even more amazing that such tranquility continued to prevail, even while their Janissary captains were up on the mountaintop hunting with the Sultan. In my recollection of the Imperial camp outside of Rome, neither the Duke of Bourbon nor his co-captain of the German landsknechts was able to command such a high degree of order, even while standing directly in front of their men issuing orders.

Next surprise — the liberality of the commissary. Even in this parched land, where water is often as valuable as gold, I saw full cauldrons of water standing ready for the cooks. And water for handwashing after visits to the latrine. Of course, these troops are all Muslims, and it is against their religion to use paper to wipe their asses. I remember one of my first days in the Princes School being told that it would be indecent to put paper to such a use because paper is what the name of God is written on. I also recall noticing that same day that the boys removed their turbans before pissing and then kissed them as they put them back on because the head covering is a mark of devotion to Allah. As the French say,
quel delicatesse
!

Certainly, I was not surprised when I joined the Sultan’s entourage to find serenity and cleanliness and a full larder and plentiful washing-up water because he is, after all, the Sultan. But to find handwashing water provided for whole companies of soldiers in the field — that shook my mind.

Of course I did not speed by the Janissary camp as I had planned to do but dismounted and walked about through the tented streets, which led to a long string of kiosks and sheds peopled by saddlers and bow-makers, coppersmiths and tinsmiths, barbers and cobblers and slipper-makers, sword smiths and tent-pole carvers, and a great number of food sellers. A fraternity of guild members set up a bazaar at each stop as they did at Elmadağ and will continue to do at every stop.

My time in the Janissary compound was truly like a pleasant visit to a busy marketplace, and I was loath to move on. But if I were to take as much time at each encampment as I did with the Janissaries, I would never reach the end of the line, or the end of this letter.

So I quickly proceeded to the next compound — the clerks and clerics of the
divan
. I knew that the entire council and their clerks and scribes were traveling with us and would be meeting regularly as they do at Topkapi. But five minutes in their environs — street after street of colored tents and what seemed like hundreds of people trudging back and forth among them with sheaves of paper in their hands — gave me a new sense of the scope of this enterprise. And I suddenly remembered one time at dinner in our house hearing the Venetian
bailo
comment with disdain that the seat of the Ottoman Empire is wherever the Sultan chooses to pitch his tent. At the time, I took this to be no more than a sneer at the Osman family’s lowly origins. But today I saw with my own eyes that the Sultan is literally the center of his empire and that wherever he moves, the government moves with him, including every last ducat of his vast treasury.

Of course, keeping an eye on the treasury could be taken as concern for the threat of the pilferage and thievery that might ensue during the Sultan’s long absences from his capital. After all, the Holy Roman emperor still lies in wait for us some hundreds of miles to the west. But granting the need to secure the treasury, what possible reason can there be to drag over mountains and through deserts every single member of the
divan
together with his clerks, his secretaries, his porters, and household staff so that they can meet each week, just as they do at Topkapi, to hear petitions and draft new laws or rub out old ones? I conclude that by placing himself at the center of this movable city, the Sultan becomes the literal personification of the empire as it moves out on campaign. With all aspects of government literally under his eye, there is no empire without him. The Venetian
bailo
is thus much cleverer than he knows. The seat of Ottoman power is indeed wherever the Sultan pitches his tent.

After the
divan
compound, I moved on through the several kitchens that serve different constituencies, past the sheep-slaughtering community that also tans hides (hold your nose!), and into the domain of the treasury, which is overseen, I found, by a Grand Chancellor who travels with two hundred slaves and an even greater number of huge oak chests, each one bound by seven metal straps and secured with three locks. At the stops these chests occupy six large tents (almost as many as the Sultan has). And together, they carry the entire treasure of the empire, to be at the instant disposal of the Sultan wherever he may travel.