The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (36 page)

From: Sultan Suleiman encamped at Eskişehir

To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

Date: June 26, 1534

Not for all the world would I cause you to shed a single tear. Steps have been taken to hasten the courier’s speed in the future.

This poem is a token of my apology to ease your heart’s pain, composed in a dark night of longing:

I am the Sultan of Love.

A glass of wine will do for a crown on my head

and the brigade of my sighs might well serve

as the dragon’s fire-breathing troops.

The bedroom that is best for you, my love, is a bed of roses.

For me, a bed and pillow carved out of rock will do.

The heart can no longer reach the district where you live

but it yearns for reunion with you.

Signed by Suleiman with his pen name, Muhabbi, the Sultan of Love.

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

The taper lights the way over the miles, brightening the days of
Sultan and page. Write on!

32

KÜTAHYA

From: Danilo del Medigo at Kütahya

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: June 30, 1534

Honored Papa:

The Sultan turns out to be just as much a victim of women’s whims as any other man. A tear-stained letter crying over the length of time it takes for his letters to reach his Sultana is all it took to raise his ire.

Let me tell you how this happened. After some days of riding — it is hard to keep track — a courier met us at the town of Kütahya bearing a letter in his pouch that sent the Sultan into a fit of rage. I recognized the identity of the sender, actually smelled it, before I even saw it. Sultana Hürrem doses her correspondence with a powerful tincture that perfumes the entire room when it emerges from its wrapping.

This time, whatever she had to report made him furious. Probably you can still remember that cold, piercing stare of his, the one that threatens to freeze you in your tracks. Believe me, Papa, even the fearless Janissaries were shaking in their boots when they came to get me. And all because of a delayed mail delivery. By the time I was called in, the Sultan’s face had assumed its normal pallor. But the fearless Janissaries were still trembling.

In an effort to be of help, I offered my assistance in speeding up the courier service. So now I am not only the Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter, I am also Page of the Pouch, Keeper of Sultan’s Correspondence, and a full member of the Fourth
Oda
.

My duties require me to operate a one-man express post to and from the closest courier stop. Normally the Sultan waits for the courier to arrive at our camp to dispatch his letters, given that our caravan proceeds at the pace of a snail. But a fast gallop from our camp to the next courier stop will give the Sultan’s personal mail a good day’s lead on its way to the capital over any mail that dawdled along with him personally. It also provides me with the daily gallop that I so missed when I was being carted along the route with my library like an old man. No offense, Papa.

Starting the day after my appointment, I collected a letter the Sultan had written in his own hand the morning before we left camp and carried it
veloce, veloce
to the next stop for the courier to take to the capital.

My orders were to seek out a waiting courier bearing mail from the other direction and to exchange pouches with him. I am also given keys to both pouches with instructions to open the arriving pouch and sort the mail into two piles: official and personal. The official pack I am to pass on to the Chief Clerk when I arrive back at the camp. But first I must be sure to bring the Sultan’s personal mail to him the very moment he dismounts from the day’s march. So far, that completes the duty roster of the Page of the Pouch. But I am happy to report that my new title has already gained me the respect of the Fourth
Oda
. They now call me Pouch instead of Jew.

And here is a list of the gifts received when I was elevated to the Fourth
Oda.

• An embroidered caftan lined with miniver
  
• A silver inkstand set with jewels
  
• A tambourine studded with five rubies
  
• A sable
  kalpak
  hat to keep my ears warm in Kurdistan, if we ever get there.
  

Another happy result. Being the Page of the Pouch, I can send off my letters to you in the Sultan’s bundle without asking anybody’s permission. And, as a kind of bonus, my daily rides through the olive plantations and the fig orchards are leading me along the very path that Alexander took on his famous ride through Anatolia to face the Persians.

My current routine is the rough equivalent of riding a twenty-mile race every day before my evening readings. They clock me and record me daily. And when I exceed my own record, the Sultan himself congratulates me. But do not fear that my success as the Pouch Page has given me a swelled head. I am aware that neither my excellent work nor my innate virtue has won me this unheard-of advancement. I just happen to be the fastest rider in the
oda
. I know you would have preferred for me to make my mark through scholarship rather than horsemanship. But, Papa, is it not better to become a somebody — no matter the means — than be a nobody?

Lest you be concerned that I might be in danger from the bloodthirsty villains who run roughshod over the Anatolian steppes, worry not. The Sultan is a man of his word and I do not carry a weapon. But I am accompanied by an armed guard of terrifying ferocity. Remember, I am carrying the Imperial Pouch.

Also let me assure you that you will keep hearing from me regularly as I promised. Maybe not every single week, but certainly every time we stay in one place for more than one night. Our next long stopover is Konya. I am told it is the holiest place in Turkey. Not much chance of getting into trouble and plenty of time to write letters.

Until then, you are in my prayers.

Your affectionate son,

Danilo

33

AFYON

From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

To: Suleiman the Great en route, received at Afyon

Date: July 5, 1534

My Sultan,

When your letter via the speedy new courier was read aloud by your esteemed daughter, the Princess Saida, it brought tears to all.

We have, in the princess, a treasure. Ever modest, she blushes as she writes my words. How sad that the Lady Hafsa, who imbued her granddaughter with such an array of virtues, will not be with us to dance at her wedding — soon to come, God willing. Again, the princess blushes, my lovely, modest daughter.

Each week, I lay aside for her the finest silks from Bursa and the best linens that I am able to unearth with the help of my bundle-woman, so that when you return, all will be in readiness to announce her wedding. This wedding, soon to come, would have been the crowning moment of the Valide’s guardianship of her fortune-favored granddaughter. Now the time has almost passed for the girl to become the woman she was meant to be.

As she writes these words the reluctant virgin flushes with embarrassment. But I insist that it is not fitting for her to live alone in her grandmother’s quarters with no one for company other than the women of the harem, the fat slave she inherited from her grandmother, and her horse. Her respect for her grandmother’s memory is admirable, but I believe that the beloved Valide — God rest her soul — would agree with me that it is not proper for a young girl to be locked up in the Old Palace with a full suite of attendants like a married woman. And at the end of each day, when her servant arrives to take her home, I think of the gloom of her solitary life with no family to turn to for comfort or guidance, no games or amusements, only the books piled up by her bedside.

It is literally true that her closest companion is her horse, which, I am told, she visits every day to feed and talk to. Surely it is time for her to take her place with her brothers and sister, and prepare herself to marry the
damat
of her father’s choice.

I worry about her. She waves away my concerns, but as I have made clear to her, I fear that she may become one of those maidens who develops an abnormal attachment to their virginity if they do not marry at an early age.

So far I have not persuaded her to abandon her grandmother’s cold and lonely apartments and move in with us at Topkapi Palace, where she will find warmth, welcome, companionship, and a garden of delight.

She dutifully records my words with her pen, but I can tell that they do not reach into her heart. Not yet. But perhaps with time. Let us pray.

May God protect you, my Sultan; may you undertake many
jihads
, capture many lands, conquer the seven seas, and come home safe.

Signed and stamped with the Regent’s seal by Sultana Hürrem.

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

For some, Topkapi Palace is a garden of delights. For others, it is a
golden cage in which one serves a life sentence with no prospect of escape
.

34

KONYA

From: Danilo del Medigo at Konya

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: July 20, 1534

Dear Papa:

You must come to Konya if only to see the most amazing little tower ever. I came upon it quite unexpectedly just as we rounded the bend on the road from the north. And honestly, Papa, it all but knocked me off my horse.

At first what I saw was just a splash of color in the sky. As we drew closer into the town, it took the form of a dome set on a round base and tucked into the skyline like a faceted jewel. I say jewel because the entire structure is clad from top to bottom in tiles of a single color, a light bluish-green, fresher than the waters of the Adriatic and softer than the vault of heaven. These tiles must be the finest things that Iznik has ever produced.