The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (54 page)

Your magnificent leadership of the Baghdad
jihad
continues to give me the strength and fortitude to do all of this and to take on any other task or duty that you might wish to charge me with.

All hail the Conqueror of the Known World.

Signed and sealed with the Regent’s stamp by Sultana Hürrem.

Beneath the signature, an encrypted message:

It is a great comfort that nothing has changed the order of events on the day the Sultan rides through the streets of his capital or the night of bliss that follows.

53

RAQQA

From: Danilo del Medigo en route to Antioch–Raqqa

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: May 26, 1535

Dear Papa:

As we struggle along the banks of the great Euphrates, I am beginning to get a glimmering of why men study geography. We are bedded down for the night above the muddy banks of the river in a campsite that has accommodated caravans of merchants traveling between Europe and Asia for centuries, and is now all but abandoned in favor of sea routes — much faster and safer. But not for the likes of this detachment, since we are hauling heavy cargo more suited to mud than to water and thus to pack animals rather than to sail.

These huge cannons — hauled across Anatolia right up to the gates of Baghdad and never used — were much too valuable to be left behind in Mesopotamia. Powered by gunpowder, each of these monstrous
bombards
can shoot stone balls close to a mile, traveling at 284 yards per second. And even though we had no need of them to capture Baghdad, there may well be cities in future campaigns less yielding than those in Azerbaijan and Iraq, where big guns will once again win the day.

Whatever the reason, the powers that decide such matters would never think of going off to war without their big guns. Though they do not seem to have given much thought to the means of transporting these huge, heavy ordnances over vast distances, nor the effort it takes to carry the
bombards
home when the fighting is over.

I think I can truthfully say that until now, I had never given much thought to any animal other than my horse. Now suddenly these huge beasts have become the center of my existence. We of the Heavy Armament Brigade ride at the top of the riverbank along the old Silk Road from Baghdad to Aleppo, overseeing the buffaloes and their cargo from a great height and pitching our tents at night on the high ground far from the water and the bugs. But you have to watch yourself up there because the whole region bordering the Syrian Desert is beset by Bedouins who make a specialty of harassing river traffic. Mind you, Bedouins will always take you in if you are hurt or lost. However, once you get beyond the confines of their hospitality, they will turn on you and slit your throat. But don’t worry, Papa. We have thousands of
sipahis
to guard us.

After my experience in their enclave at Elmadağ, I have been inclined to keep my distance from the
sipahis
, but that is impossible this time. Their brigades bracket us at both ends in the line of march. They are, we are told, positioned to keep a sharp eye on us for our own protection. One wonders if this heavy shield has not been laid on for the sake of the valuable armaments we are carrying rather than for us. Perhaps that is a cynical thought. Whatever the reason, the
sipahis
take their charge very seriously, keeping a constant watch out for stragglers and herding us along in clusters as we do the water buffaloes.

But last night, while the
sipahis
were at evening prayers, I managed to escape briefly and stroll down to where the beasts spend their off-hours in the care of their Bedouin boy handlers. Had I the world enough and time, Papa, these boys who serve the herd of buffaloes deserve an entire report to themselves. They are all young — many, I would bet, no older than ten years — but perfectly trained and totally lacking in fear of their beastly charges, who are twice as tall as they are and fifty times as strong with huge, curled horns, the better to tear you apart.

God must have had these creatures in mind when he created the Euphrates River. It was made for them. In the evening, as soon as they are detached from their harnesses and released from their burdens, they gravitate to the river, and there they satisfy their hunger with the vegetation that grows profusely in the muddy shallows. Once sated, they set about to beautify their bodies with mud that they dig up and spread over themselves.

Then they sink into the muck until all you can see of them is the tips of their horns poking up out of the water. When they are thoroughly soaked, up they pop to enjoy the evening, looking for all the world like groups of harem beauties taking their ease around the pools of the
hamam
.

The picture so entertained me that it wasn’t until I was standing directly above them at the edge of the treeline that I noticed, hidden under the ledge of the bank, a long line of much smaller buffaloes loosely tethered to a rope, as placid as a herd of cows waiting to be milked. Between them, the shepherd boys scurried back and forth carrying pails of liquid that they poured into a series of huge copper cauldrons suspended over the fires dotted along the riverbank. Of course, when I leaned over for a better look, I was able to make out that I had stumbled into exactly what it appeared to be: milking time for the females of the herd (hence their smaller stature).

By then, I had made some effort to acquaint myself with buffalo lore, easy enough to pick up from those members of our brigade who had done similar duty with these beasts in past campaigns. And I had come by a raft of anecdotes, all respectful if not downright admiring of these creatures, telling of their great strength, their tolerance for fourteen-hour marches, even their ferocity as fighters. And not a single joke at their expense. But no story I had heard suggested to me that as well as their utility as beasts of burden and suppliers of meat, they were also a source of mother’s milk. However, once I understood this, I was consumed by the prospect of getting a taste of the stuff.

What harm could there be in asking? The Bedouin boys had always shown the utmost affability in our few encounters with them. So I marched myself over to the closest cauldron and gently tapped on the shoulder of the first shepherd who passed by with a full bucket to ask for a sip.

To my surprise, he refused flatly. “No, no, you cannot drink this milk, sir. This milk is not for humans, only animals.” Then, as if to forestall an argument, he quickly added, “Even a small taste would make you sick. Very sick.”

Which led me to the obvious question: “Then why are you collecting it?”

“For cheese, of course. Why else?”

Have you ever been patronized by a ten-year-old shepherd boy, Papa? The look I got for my question was the look I richly deserved for not using my brains. And I must admit, I blushed for shame. Perhaps that is what made him take pity on me, for he added with a friendly smile, “This cheese will roast over the coals all night, and by morning it will be fit to eat. If you wish to taste it, be here at sunrise to share in our feast.”

Well, I was there, Papa. I sneaked away from our minders during their absence at morning prayers. Somewhat foolish of me, I suppose, but the taste of that cheese lingers with me as I write. Delicate. Milky. A sort of lightly salted
pannacotta
, quite unlike any flavor I can remember. Except that as I ate it, I became convinced that I had met this taste before. But where? Not in Turkey. Perhaps in Italy. Yes, then I remembered — in Rome, at Madonna Isabella’s table. She had presented this same cheese as a delicacy because it had to be eaten within four hours of emerging from the boiling pot.
Buffalo mozzarella fresca
! Fresh cheese just as the Bedouin shepherds had presented it to me. But, being peasants, they keep the cheese left over from breakfast and stuff it under their saddles in packets of oilskin to stew in horse sweat, as an evening delicacy.

I don’t quite know why I was so eager to tell you this tale, Papa. But I have the feeling that it says something about the world we live in, that what passes for crude shepherd’s fare in one country is considered a rare delicacy at the table of a great lady in another. Let us have a conversation on this subject.

At Aleppo we say goodbye to our ever good-natured and ever accommodating buffaloes and transfer the weight of our cannons to the backs of hundreds of stubborn, bad-tempered mules. I miss the great beasts already.

Love,

D.

54

ANTIOCH

From: Danilo del Medigo at Antioch

To: Judah del Medigo at Topkapi Palace

Date: July 9, 1535

Dear Papa:

Well, here I am in the ancient city of Antioch, and there is almost nothing left to see. Back in Roman times, Antioch was the third-largest city in the western world, rivaled only by Alexandria and Rome itself. Today a single monument remains. Gazing at the great empty spaces, there came to mind the quote from Tacitus that either you or Mama taught me:
Solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant!
They have created a desert and called it peace. That is how this old city looked to me when we came upon it at the easternmost tip of the Mediterranean.

As I write, I see what the Romans — and the Christians — have done to the city of Antioch. Very likely it is the same thing that the Assyrians did to the Hittite monuments when they conquered this place. And what the Greeks did to the Assyrians in their turn. I see here the same ruination that I observed in Baghdad. And I am reminded of great Carthage burned to the ground and Alexander’s magnificent library at Alexandria consumed by flames, manuscripts and all. Food for thought on the long ride home.

Once we had loaded up our food and supplies and prepared our newly acquired pack mules for the journey across the Taurus range, we were free to explore the neighborhood. For my part I chose to disappear down a hole into the bowels of the Roman Empire. The name of the place is Zeugma. It is buried under fifteen hundred years of mud and debris. This is where the rich Romans of Antioch built their summer villas. Today, all that can be seen of Zeugma above ground are a few stone tombs scattered around what might have been a necropolis, and surrounded by huge earth mounds that may conceal great treasures buried forever.

But while we were traveling here from Baghdad, we heard quite another version from a boy named Ali, one of the Marsh Arabs who have been guiding us. These guides are young like us, and the nights on the edge of the Mediterranean are not good for much more than storytelling. So this Ali fell into a conversation with one of our pages and told him a wild and improbable but, as it turns out, accurate tale of the depredations of grave robbers who, it seems, have been practicing their profession as long as the historians have. Perhaps even longer.

In a word, Ali offered to lead us to the holes dug into the mounds, some to a depth of thirty feet, that members of his tribe have been systematically “exploring” for hundreds of years. It is not easy, he explained, to take frescoes off the walls or dislodge mosaics from floors. So those things, he says, are still there to be seen by anyone with the nerve to venture into the subterranean depths. This morning we set off — just three of us pages and two of the Arab boys. I well understood that this venture was dangerous and ill advised and probably illegal — just the kind of challenge you know I can’t resist.

So down we went, like Dante into the
Inferno
, only we were lowered on a rope. It was dim and airless down there, not stifling, but close. And after navigating a tunnel or two, we were in a Roman house. We knew it was a house because directly in front of us we could see through an arch a room whose walls were not lined with sarcophagi, as would be the walls of a tomb, but with painted surfaces. And the entire floor space was occupied by a single scene rendered in mosaic tiles.

Before allowing us any closer, Ali took pains to explain to us that this was only one of countless such houses — he was familiar with seventeen of them — but that we would be limited on our foray to only a single pair of rooms close to the entrance. Our time was limited, he explained, because the air was poisoned with underground gases. Very reasonable, we thought. Also, he warned us there were ninjas hidden in niches in the walls. There could be no doubt as to which of the two — the poison gases or the ninjas — he found more menacing.