The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (50 page)

“I understand, sire,” he continued, “that you have a shortage of gunpowder.”

What was this? A mockery? A threat?

The Janissaries stepped forward to heave the fellow out, but the Sultan waved them away. And then, the unthinkable: the Sultan spoke directly to the butcher; almost as if to an equal.

“You heard correctly, my good man. Our entire supply of explosives has gone on ahead with the advance party.”

“Well, sire, I have something here that might help you out.” With that the butcher began to paw at the odds and ends of shawls and wools that he had wrapped himself in to ward off the cold.

Once again, the Janissaries moved to stop him and once again the Sultan warned them off. I wonder if someone who has spent a lifetime under the threat of assassination from the very day of his birth develops a special sense of whom he can trust. Certainly the Sultan seemed sure from the beginning that he had nothing to fear from this man. He allowed the fellow to disrobe, rag by rag, waiting patiently until, at last, the butcher reached down below his belly button and fetched up an oilskin pouch filled to overflowing with some yellowish, powdery stuff.

Of course, the Janissaries rushed in to grab it, but the Sultan again motioned them away.

“What have you brought me, Orhan?” he inquired politely.

The butcher, equally courteous, replied, “It is a gift I got from my pa, sire. When I came of age, he gave me two things: this sack and his best butcher knife. ‘Strap these to your belly, my boy, and you will never be without protection in the world,’ is what my pa told me.” Then, with a sideways glance at the Janissaries, he added, “Your men took the knife away when they let me through.”

“Don’t worry, you shall have your knife back,” said the Sultan. “Now, what of the sack?”

“I give it to you, sire, with my heart’s wishes that it may be of some use. Not much of it, but my pa swore to me there was enough gunpowder in this sack to blast me out of any jail in the world.”

Well, Papa, there was enough gunpowder in that sack to blast a giant gap in the snow wall. And the next morning we all marched out of the Manisht Pass in single file to freedom.

When the blast went off, the butcher stood in a place of honor at the right hand of the Sultan, the place normally occupied by the Grand Vizier. Only this time Ibrahim the Greek was supplanted by Orhan the butcher, hoisted on the shoulders of the Janissaries by the Sultan’s order and conveyed to the end of the pass while the crowd cheered him almost as loudly as they had applauded me earlier. They had a new hero now.

On the far side of the pass, the villagers had been alerted by the explosion and were lined up on both sides of the path, their arms full of fruits and bread and pure white yogurt in gourds. They knew we would be hungry. The army stayed two days at their invitation, bathing and eating and giving thanks, while I sat tucked up in my downy quilt being visited and cosseted by my comrades. Prince for a day.

More tomorrow,

D.

From: Danilo del Medigo at Abi-Nerin

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: November 27, 1534

Dear Papa:

Here is what it is like to be a hero. The admiration and praise are sweet. But then comes the bitter aftertaste.

The Grand Vizier Ibrahim has arrived with his rescue team — a little late. Very soon after his arrival, he paid me a visit at my tent. He brought with him a purse full of coins from the Sultan, which I refused to accept. I handed it back to him and thanked him politely but explained that I had done nothing more than my duty and that every man there would have been honored to do the same service if he had been in my place. Believe me, Papa, this sentiment came straight from my heart. But it caused the Grand Vizier to grab me by the shoulders with venom shooting out from his eyes.

“Do you not know that no one refuses the Sultan’s gifts?” he demanded. “The gifts that the Sultan offers for services rendered are his way of erasing any debt that he may have incurred. The Sultan can remain under obligation to no man. Are you so ill-bred that no one taught you that such a refusal is an insult?”

Without waiting for my answer he began to shake the bag in my face. “Or is this some Jewish ploy to get the Padishah to raise the sum of your reward? Is that it?”

I was too astonished to answer. But whatever he saw on my face made him tighten his grip and lower his voice to a steely tone.

“Well, my boy, your ploy may well succeed. Perhaps I may be ordered to bring you a new purse that contains twice the amount of coins than the one you so disrespectfully returned. But do not rush to congratulate yourself on the cleverness of your scheme. You may have multiplied your takings this time, but you have much to learn, boy.” He took my head in his hands and glared at me. “I thought I had made it clear to you after the episode at Tabriz that there is no room in the Padishah’s suite for showy gestures on the part of underlings. Are you deaf? Are you a slow learner? Or are you just stiff-necked? That is what God called your people when they challenged him. Stiff-necked. But, be warned, this is the last time you will give offence to the Padishah and not suffer severe consequences.”

With that he whirled out of the room. And now, I sit here in my tent, disgraced and cheated of the only prize I ever wanted — not gold or even thanks, just recognition that I had some small part in our victory over nature in the Manisht Pass. Instead, I have coins thrown at me as if I were a dog. And I sit here alone, humiliated, and, Papa, there are tears in my eyes.

As I write, a scene comes into my mind: a picture of Achilles alone on the beach at Troy, weeping as he watches the beautiful young virgin he earned as his prize for his victory at Lyrnessus, being led away from his lodge into the arms of King Agamemnon. With her goes the honor he earned in battle, snatched from him by an envious rival.

“
The man disgraces me
,” Achilles cries aloud in anguish. “
He should at least give me respect, but now he gives me nothing
.”

Raising his arms to the heavens, Achilles reaches up to his mother, the goddess Thetis, for solace.

At that moment I found myself raising my arms to heaven. And I swear I heard my mother whisper my name as Achilles’ mother did. But, even as I implored her, I knew that, like Thetis, she was powerless to change the course of events. For, as the poet says, no one controls the honors bestowed by a king.

So here I sit sulking in my tent, reminding myself of Achilles on the beach. He was good at war. A lot better than I am. And, by some odd coincidence, he too was robbed of his prize. But there ends the likeness. For I am resolved never again to play the role of Achilles to the Grand Vizier’s Agamemnon. Never!

Good night, Papa.

D.

From: Danilo del Medigo at Abi-Nerin

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: November 29, 1534

Dear Papa:

At last the Tigris, the oldest river in the world. You cannot look at it drifting by, as I am now doing, and not get a new lease on life.

Also, I was somewhat lifted out of the miseries inflicted on me by the Grand Vizier when Ahmed Pasha took pity on me after I confided in him. His judgments are often harsh, but they are always just. He listened to my tale of woe without comment, and when I came to the end, he pulled twice on his beard and responded in a way I would have taken ill from another person, but I have come to know his stern manner cloaks a warm heart.

“My boy, there is no question that an injustice has been done you,” he began. “But, believe me, worse things have happened to nicer people. Remember,” he reminded me, “that you did not embark on this venture in search of glory but to add experience to your education. You wanted to visit the palaces of the caliphate and you will. You wanted to sail the waters of the oldest rivers in the world and you will.” And, to be sure, today I am sitting on the banks of the Tigris with the towers of Baghdad just visible in the distance and feeling — I can’t say how I feel, Papa — awed, maybe?

After we blew a hole in the ice barrier at Abi-Nerin there followed three days of slogging through the Amara marshes, a thicket of reeds six feet high in chest-deep water, a great trial for the animals but perfectly calm and safe for those of us on their backs. Then just when we were beginning to think ourselves becalmed in the reeds forever, we came upon a broad thoroughfare full of carts and wagons and people — strolling, running, walking free with huge heavy sacks on their heads — all moving along the riverside of the great Tigris, the most ancient waterway in the world, a waterway that I had never in my life even hoped to see. The river was teeming with every kind of craft from graceful gondolas to great sailing ships packed to the hilt with cargo — silks and satins and fur pelts, gold and silver, pepper and spices with names I have heard of but never tasted. I swear to you, Papa, as I watched those crates sail by, the fragrance of cinnamon and cloves and coriander wafted by my nose and I could taste on my tongue the tang of saffron.

You might point out that, from where I sat on the shore, I could not even see the cargo bales in the holds of those ships, much less smell or taste what is in them. But I did, Papa. I did. And every taste and sniff reminded me that the world is full of wonders yet to come. All I need to do is turn my head southward, and I can see ahead the towers of Baghdad.

Will we be welcomed at the gates or shot at? Our spies are not agreed. But don’t worry, Papa. I still have my place in the Sultan’s guard, surrounded on all sides by Janissaries, just as you were when you campaigned with him. And you know that is the safest place in the world to be.

Love,

D.

48

BAGHDAD

From: Sultan Suleiman, encamped at Baghdad

To: Sultana Hürrem at Topkapi Palace

Date: December 4, 1534

My Regent:

The long march is over. Baghdad is officially ours. Once again, a Sunni
ghazi
sits on the golden throne of Persia. The Shiite shah cowers behind the far eastern mountains of his empire. Yes, victory is ours. But sadly, the conqueror does not have his queen at his side. However, he takes comfort in knowing that this triumph resounds throughout the world to the glory of the Ottoman name, while in Istanbul there sits a Regent dedicated heart and soul to the future interests of his empire and his family.

Signed by the Sultan

Beneath, an invisible encryption:

Under Allah’s watchful eye the Great
Ghazi
’s life has been preserved and the jihad has been saved from disaster. With renewed hope of victory for the jihad comes new hope for the page who made the thrust that saved his
ghazi
. Surely, this deed will raise him to the heights of his heart’s desire.