The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (55 page)

Now with a grand gesture he waved us under an arch, and we found ourselves on the edge of what can best be described as a mosaic carpet, divided into two scenes. At our feet stood Dionysius (identified by his name in black Greek letters) driving a gorgeous gold chariot drawn by two prancing leopards with Niobe at his side. It was amazing seeing the scene in motion, the animals prancing, their front hooves raised as they rushed forward, and Dionysius’ muscles bulging with the effort of clutching the reins. It was lifelike to the bone, yet the whole scene had been created out of little chips of stone and metal. The other half of the floor was occupied by seven figures also in motion, walking along as if out for a stroll on a Roman street.

Ali allowed us only one more room. There at our feet sat the god Poseidon, the points of his trident sharp enough to stab you and his beard tinged grey as old men’s beards tend to be. The god is seated on a golden chariot, the horses again with forelegs raised, the hooves coming right out at you. He is surrounded by Oceanus and his sea creatures, floating, wriggling, swimming, as in life. You have to go there someday, Papa, and see it perfectly preserved, even to the blush on the cheeks of the maidens after a thousand and a half years.

When Ali signaled that our time was up, our disappointment must have touched his heart because instead of taking us toward the exit, he agreed to brave the wrath of the ninjas and led us forward to yet another low arch.

“This floor has been ravaged,” he explained. “The figure you see has been damaged. But it is our treasure of treasures, the Gypsy Girl. She is our Venus.”

As he spoke he pointed to a half-destroyed panel studded with bullet holes. (What encounter could have happened here?) Most of the girl’s lower body has vanished. But her face is perfectly present. It is the eyes that haunt you. They seem to see into your very soul and bring to light all the secret thoughts that you have kept hidden away.

I know an Italian painter called Leonardo from Vinci famous for painting eyes. In fact, I once saw a crayon sketch of Madonna Isabella that he left behind at Mantova as a kind of thank-you for dinner. It was an excellent likeness. And I hear that he has since made an easel picture of a Madonna Lisa that has become famous in the world for her remarkable eyes. Maybe so. But if one day someone boasts to me that he has seen this Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, I will tell him, “Good for you. But I have seen the gypsy Venus of Zeugma.”

After today, we will have no regular contact with the capital. So you cannot be certain of hearing from me until this brigade arrives at Üsküdar field many weeks hence. But have no fear for my safety. Traveling through southern Anatolia I will be clasped firmly within the bonds of empire. Our only enemy will be every traveler’s complaint, dysentery. And I intend to follow your dietary dictum as I have from the beginning of this long adventure: eat plenty of yogurt every day; no ripe melons, however tempting. Your wise advice has kept me healthy all this time, and I am cheered by the prospect of holding you in a tight embrace at the doorway of the Doctor’s House in Topkapi Palace before the year has reached its end.

See you in Istanbul, Papa!

Your loving son,

D.

55

COMING HOME

At nine o’clock on the morning of January 3, 1536, the members of the Sultan’s Heavy Armament Brigade were assembled in Üsküdar field and officially dismissed from duty. By nine-thirty, Danilo del Medigo, no longer on loan to the brigade but once again a member of the Fourth
Oda
of the Sultan’s School for Pages, had stowed his gear, strapped his money pouch to his waist, and set out for the docks. There he spent an excessive amount of money for a private barge to ferry him across the Bosphorus to the Galata pier.

Once ashore, he headed directly to the stalls built up against the wall of the Grand Istanbul Bazaar, where Jews and Moors and Franks and black Africans and Arabs of all sects competed to provide customers with whatever their hearts desired. Anything from a balas ruby to a ripe tomato could be had for a price.

At the bazaar Danilo’s wants were simple and easy to satisfy. He made his way past the valuable offerings in the domed
bedestan
to the shed behind it known to the locals as “Belgrade,” because a group of Serbs had adopted it as their market. There, from three different vendors, the page purchased one cinnamon stick, one rosebud cutting, and a bunch of carrots, each neatly wrapped. These he carried across Beyazit Square to the Old Palace where the Sultan’s harem was housed.

Correction: before he crossed the square, the page took the time to climb up Palace Point to a stall in the Sultan’s stables at Topkapi Palace, where he offered the carrots — gratefully received — and exchanged extravagant expressions of affection with the occupant of the stall, a horse named Bucephalus.

The climb to Seraglio Point was steep, and once the page set foot in the stable, he was sorely tempted to bed down in the straw beside Bucephalus as he had done so often in the past. But he did not linger. With an affectionate pat, he bade his horse good day and sped off down the hill to the Old Palace, where he presented himself at the harem gate. There, he deposited his two remaining purchases with the guard to be delivered to Princess Saida as soon as possible.

The next stop on his itinerary was the Doctor’s House back in the Fourth Court of Topkapi Palace. But on the heels of that thought came the seductive idea that if he were to turn left instead of right after entering the gate, a few steps would land him back in his old bed in the pages’ dormitory where he was expected today. The cozy feather quilt beckoned. He succumbed. The moment he laid his head on the pillow, he drifted off into a deep sleep.

Danilo del Medigo was not a dreamer. The few dreams he had left his mind the moment he opened his eyes. But today’s dream was unusually sticky. Even when he blinked, the round, smiling black face with its large white teeth and the gold earrings did not disappear.

“Sir! Sir!”

The page rolled over and rammed his head into the pillow. Surely the Sultan had not arrived in town so soon.

Now came a shake of the quilt, not rough but not gentle either. Slowly he turned his head and squinted at the figure looming above him.

“Narcissus!” This was no dream.

“Narcissus it is, sir, with a message for you.”

The slave leaned over and held out a folded piece of copy paper, pressed the note into the sleepy page’s hand, and was gone. Unfolded, the note revealed a message in red chalk:
Same time, same place
, he read.
Two long. Two short.

The light streaming in from the skylight told him that it was still many hours until the “same time.” And the fluffy quilt beckoned him to return to sleep. But, although this morning he had not put his filial duties ahead of his other concerns, Danilo del Medigo was, at heart, a dutiful son who knew how offended his father would be if he somehow got news of his son’s return from a stranger. So with some reluctance he left his warm bed and set off to pay his respects to the doctor.

The doctor retired early these days. He tended to run down soon after his afternoon nap. That would give just enough time, his son calculated, for a fond embrace and a taste of supper before he clambered down the hill to the Grand Vizier’s dock to await the familiar signal — two long, two short flashes of the lantern — that would announce the arrival of a sleek black caique.

His timing was perfectly calculated. He did indeed arrive at the Doctor’s House in time to find a place at his father’s bedside, where his face was the first thing the doctor saw when he opened his eyes. And the boy was well rewarded for the sacrifice of his own sleep by the look he saw on his father’s face when he bent over to kiss the withered cheek.

After a brief meal Danilo was able to leave his father content with his promise to return two days hence to celebrate the Sabbath, if not before.

So it was with a clear conscience and an eager heart that he set off at a run to tumble down the hill behind the Fourth Court and lie flat on the rock shelf overlooking the cove with his eyes fixed on the spot where an incoming craft should first be spotted in the dark. Only when he had settled there did he give himself over to the wild anticipation that he now allowed to course through his body in expectation of what was to come.

56

IN THE HAMAM

Although she had been in and out of the harem’s baths since childhood, Princess Saida had never completely mastered the skill of strolling around comfortably in the high pattens worn by the harem women in the
hamam
. She could execute complicated dance steps without losing her balance, but she could not overcome a tendency to stumble and fall when she was propped up on the five-inch platforms designed to preserve tender feet from the
hamam’s
heated marble floors.

The treacherous pattens were not the only reason for the princess to evade her stepmother’s pressing invitations to join her in one of her days of beauty at the luxurious spa that the Sultana had built for herself in her “temporary” quarters at Topkapi. But today Princess Saida had a reason to make use of the Sultana’s cadre of expert practitioners in the beauty arts. And there she stood at the curtained doorway of the
hamam
, ready to endure whatever discomforts or indignities awaited her as the price of making herself beautiful for the long-awaited reunion with the love of her life.

Already her nose sniffed the air that permeated the place — a foggy mix of roses, musk, and amber. She pulled the curtain aside. The room ahead of her — the rotunda — was buzzing with the chatter of women coming and going and resting from their strenuous body treatments. There were women being dressed, women being undressed, and women being served sherbets and candied fruits from the baskets carried on the heads of the bare-breasted portresses who served the rotunda, while other attendants made their way to and from the laundry bearing piles of fluffy towels and embroidered robes.

The rotunda, a room of no great size, was capped with a perforated dome supported by a series of slim marble columns, a design similar to that of the other spas in the harem. But in the Sultana’s
hamam
,
the simplicity of the structure was more than offset by the grandeur of the furnishings. The couches spread about on the broad marble steps leading up to the central fountain were upholstered in satin, each one covered by a fine silk carpet and piled high with cushions of the softest Siberian down. The basins used to carry warm water from the fountain for the final foot washing were of hand-beaten copper fitted with gold handles. And the pitchers that hung from the washerwomen’s belts were studded with turquoise stones and pearls. No question, the Sultana’s spa had her mark on it.

The princess was quickly recognized and escorted to an empty couch where she was smoothly relieved of her clothing and wrapped in a huge fluffy towel. Then she was offered a choice of footwear — pattens with gold soles, pattens with jeweled buckles of various colours, and pattens strapped with fine leather or silk ribbons. The choice was immaterial to Saida. She would have difficulty walking in all of them. But she knew that the hated things would keep her feet high above the water that swirled around the drains of the rooms ahead, carrying off the soap scum and the depilatory creams and stray hairs that streamed down from the women’s bodies as they were being rinsed off.