The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (37 page)

On the approach to Konya, this gorgeous little thing acts upon the traveler as do the minarets of Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, beckoning him ever closer into the center of the town. And when our caravan stopped at the tower to pay homage, I recognized it to be a tomb. Close up I could see that the entire structure is divided into sixteen lobes that come together at the apex like the sections of an orange. The base and the dome are divided from each other by a band of calligraphy that spells out (I have since learned),
In the name of Allah, the compassionate and the meaningful.
As I recall, this is the phrase that begins each book of the Koran. I am told that this dome rises directly over the shrine of Jalal al-din Rumi, the Sufi mystic whom the Ottomans call the Mevlana.

Konya is indeed a pious town. A man can get beaten up here for smoking in the street! I shudder to think what they do to women who displease them. The place is full of pilgrims come to pay homage to the Mevlana. In spite of your repeated counsel against making hasty judgments, I quickly leapt to the conclusion that I was in for three boring and friendless days while my fellow pages devoted themselves to their Sufi rituals.

Until this week, I had barely heard of this Rumi. Then, the night before we reached Konya, as I was taking leave of the Sultan, he inquired if I had read any of the Mevlana’s poems. And when I replied no, he went rummaging into a trunk for a small volume that he pressed into my hand.

“These are a few of the many poems left to us by Rumi. He lived and preached and wrote in Konya three centuries ago and is buried here. He is what a Christian might call the patron saint of our family,” he told me.

That is when I found out that the little turquoise tower I fell in love with was this Rumi’s shrine.

“Please understand that this is not in any way an attempt to convert you,” the Sultan continued. “I have too much respect for your father’s wishes to do that. But I thought you might enjoy the poetry.”

Well, Papa, you know how it is with poetry and me. When I was forced to commit the Sultan’s own poems to memory in the School for Pages, it was like swallowing mouthfuls of aloes. Of course I accepted the book graciously and thanked him profusely. And I thought that would be the end for me of Rumi’s poetry.

But the next day, after walking my feet off among the monuments of Konya, I found myself leafing idly through the pages of the little book the Sultan had given me. And the occasional phrase did catch my eye. Then, partly in the Sultan’s honor and partly because I had had a bellyful of Arrian, I wandered over to Rumi’s tomb.

You know me, Papa. The combination of mystical poetry and Koranic quotations is not exactly my idea of a good time. Needless to say, I was hardly in a worshipful state of mind as I stood at the entrance to Rumi’s tomb. Of course, I was careful to stop at the fountain in the courtyard to wash my hands and feet. And I did leave my boots at the door. Wouldn’t want to get stoned to death.

The first thing to strike my eye was the inscription of four lines on the wall of the antechamber:

Come, come, whoever you are,

Whether you be fire worshipers, idolaters or pagans.

Ours is not a dwelling place of despair.

All who enter will receive a welcome here.

Is that not a remarkable message to put on a grave? I was taken enough with it to make a copy for you. And that is how the Sultan found me when he arrived to pray. Copying Rumi. It is hard to tell with him, but he must have been pleased because he invited me to accompany his party that evening to the
semahane
,
where the Sufis were to perform a
sema
in his honor.

Ahmed Pasha tells me that the Ottomans have embraced the Sufis since they first converted to Islam and that the hall in which the
sema
ceremony took place was built by Suleiman’s grandfather, Bayezid. Also, the fountain at which I had washed my feet was a gift from the Sultan’s father, Selim the Grim. I guess that if I was going to wash my feet for anyone, I picked the right saint.

Of course, I had heard stories of the whirling dervishes of Konya who make their observances by spinning around until they collapse into a trance. So that evening I fully expected to witness some kind of wild dance in which the Sufis whirl into a frenzy, then fall about foaming at the mouth. But it is not like that at all, Papa. The ceremony takes place on a circular platform surrounded by a balustrade in the shadow of the Mevlana’s tomb. The Sufis enter quietly, all cloaked in black, their heads covered in high camel-colored hats. I am told that the cloak represents a tomb and the hat a tombstone, and everything that follows is also fraught with special meanings.

After passing twice before the Sultan with solemn reverence, the Sufis slowly shed their cloaks, revealing the long white skirts meant to symbolize shrouds that whirl slowly around them as they twirl. This garment marks their escape from the tomb and from all worldly cares. While this was happening, the Sultan remained standing, as did all of his party, with their hands folded over their stomachs.

Then came the music of the ney flute, a heart-rending wail that expresses a longing for the attainment of the Ultimate. It has to be the saddest instrument in the world. The Sufis say it is the sound of the reed longing for its home in the riverbed. I noticed that some members of our party were moved to tears by its melancholy.

Then came the Music of the Spheres, which transforms the dancers into heavenly bodies. It is all very stately. Very slow at first. As they turn, they repeat a chant in a whisper while the musicians sing a hymn. Then faster and faster they twirl. But in perfect control. At the end, the head of the order joins the dancers and twirls with them. Their purpose, they say, is to affect a union with God. And I swear, Papa, despite my deep-down reservations, I thought the leader was going to rise to heaven and fly away.

Tomorrow we take off for the north, and I resume my proper duties as Page of the Pouch. I will always thank you for giving me this chance to see the great world.

D.

From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

To: Sultan the Great en route, received at Konya

Date: July 17, 1534

My esteemed Sultan:

When you first named me as Regent in your absence I took it to be an honorary post — greet visitors, sign documents, and the like. Who knew that it would fall upon me to investigate each candidate for the hand of our daughter? Or that this would entail the compilation of several lengthy
curricula vitae
? Or that this would be a task requiring skill and discretion beyond the competence of my current staff?

I believe that the best place to recruit the talents I now require would be among your eunuchs, pages, or clerks. I am told that your Men in Black are well trained for just such tasks. Is it possible that a pair of them could be spared to come to my assistance in investigating these candidates? I leave the choice to you, honored Sultan. Then what remains is for you, my lord, to instruct your treasury officers to set up a line in my household budget for this new security detail.

I await word of your approval and pray every day for the strength to carry this unexpected load of responsibility.

Signed and sealed with the Regent’s
tugra.

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

Three suitors came this week to look at the bride — one judge, one admiral, and a high priest of the Ulema. All old. All grey. All fat. Whichever the Sultan prefers will be his daughter’s choice. Does it matter?

From: Sultan Suleiman encamped at Konya

To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

Date: July 22, 1534

How could I have known when I fell into the deep pools of your eyes that I would find in you such a helpmate? As of this day, my order to add two of my Men in Black to your staff is now an official part of your household budget. Would that I could lessen your burden, but sadly there is no one else in the world in whom I can place my entire trust.

Duty calls and your poet, Muhabbi the lover, suffers. Since Rumi is a great comfort to me in these days of separation and loneliness, I hope his words will speak for me until time permits Muhabbi to make his own poems once more. Meanwhile here is a
ghazal
by Rumi translated for you by my Assistant Foreign Language Interpreter.

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter.

I become a torture to those I’m with.

If you are not here nothing grows.

I lack clarity. My words

tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.

How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.

Signed 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:

As the page’s pen speaks for the poet, so the poet’s pen speaks for the
page.

35

EREĞLI

From: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

To: Sultan Suleiman en route, received in Ereğli

Date: July 21, 1534

My Sultan,

You wrote me once that if I were able to read what you wrote, you would write at greater length of your longing for me. That time has at last arrived. Today, I have given our beloved Princess Saida notice that from now on I will undertake to deal with intimate or private matters in direct discourse with you, my beloved, without the intervention of a third person. Under the princess’s tutoring I have learned the fine style, and due to her efforts I now feel confident to express myself to you without embarrassment. Of course, I will continue to call upon the princess in her official role as secretary to the Regent, but at least this lightens her burden. For years she has toiled to teach me, and now she will get her reward — whatever her heart desires as her gift from me on her wedding day. She need only name it and it is hers.

She blushes. But it is time she had some relief from her constant service to me and is free to step forward into her own life as a wife and mother.

It gives me great pleasure to report to you that the employment of my new security secretaries has succeeded beyond our expectations. The two Men in Black that you assigned me have come forth so speedily with such complete dossiers that I was able to cull my original list of candidates for Princess Saida’s hand to one judge, one high priest of the
Ulema
,
and one admiral, each with a record of long and loyal service to you. The final choice is, of course, yours, to be made public when you return (may Allah make that soon).

I take it as a sign of Allah’s grace that I have discovered a second and not unimportant use for the candidate
damats’
documents. In the process of compiling their lifelong records, new details of their lives — both personal and financial — have come to light. We are now in possession of information that certain of the gifts bestowed by the Sultan, such as land, slaves, and palaces, which were earmarked to be returned to the Royal Treasury upon the death of the recipients, have mysteriously fallen into the hands of others — some of them family members — who will be under no obligation to return their gifts when the owner dies. Is there such a crime as financial treason? Yes or no, the knowledge of these concealed riches cannot but benefit your treasury. My new-found ability to wield my own pen has enabled me to convey this to you in strictest confidence.