The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (62 page)

61

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

From the moment he had placed himself in Narcissus’s hands for the flight from the Sultan’s stables to the safety of the
San Domenico
, the sheer necessity to remain alive had left Danilo no time to think.

Not until he was safely tucked into his bunk in the
pizola
did his heart stop pounding. Only then did his fevered mind begin to steady itself. Only then did his thoughts turn to the princess whose efforts had saved him from the Sultana’s men, who even now were combing the streets of Istanbul in search of him.

He reached for the documents in the pocket of the carpet bag and began to examine the
laissez passer
identifying him as Davide dei Rossi. Such forgeries did not come cheap, especially when they were needed within a few hours. And the documents, plus the bribes that most certainly had been paid, were only a part of the large sum it must have taken to transform him overnight from Danilo del Medigo, a fugitive on the run from the Sultana’s Men in Black, into Davide dei Rossi, son of a Mantova merchant returning from his first business trip to the east.

Where had the princess come by such a sum so quickly? But then she had never failed to rise to an occasion when the occasion demanded it. What a girl! The only girl in the world for him. Now he would never see her again. Long ago his mother had offered her life for his. And when this ship set sail he would be leaving behind two people who loved him in the same selfless way: the father who had nurtured him and the princess who had risked her life for him. He turned his head to the wall to ward off the thought.

From the wheelhouse above him in the ship’s castle, the captain’s voice could be heard bellowing orders. All around, bells rang and winches squealed as the heavy anchor chain bounced against the side of the ship on its way to the surface — all of this unremarked by the occupant of the
pizola
,
too deeply buried in the past to take notice.

It took a sudden, violent lurch of the ship as it reversed direction to jolt him out of his bunk and dump him onto the floor of the cabin into the present. Was there still time to go back?

As if they had a will of their own, his feet found their footing and carried him through the door of the
pizola
,
up the ladder, and onto the poop deck. There he faced a long aisle with rows of oarsmen on either side, three to a bench. He stood there mesmerized by the rhythm of the oars as they plunged deep into the water and rose high in the air in perfect unison. The ship was underway. No chance now to leave the vessel.

Unwilling to face the prospect of crawling back into the tight, cramped confines of the
pizola,
he began to move slowly and carefully past the oarsmen toward the prow of the ship. The six cannons arranged around the mast were a sharp reminder that, although the
San Domenico
was a merchant ship, any vessel sailing the eastern Mediterranean must be prepared for marauders — Turkish corsairs, if not Corsican pirates.

But at this moment the perils lurking in the depths of the Mediterranean were in no way apparent. The
San Domenico
was cruising peacefully along the Bosphorus — a turbulent waterway but not a perilous one — and the passenger from the
pizola
managed to catch one last sight of the minarets of Istanbul as they faded from view. The sun was rising now, bathing the fabled domes of the capital in a pale pink light. Turning backward to face the city, he was able to pick out the familiar cupola of the Hagia Sophia in a corona of sunlight, its minarets waving like golden stalks in the breeze.

He blinked and clenched his eyes shut in an effort to imprint the scene on his memory. But as distance blurred the details, he was left facing only emptiness.

Now the Princes’ Islands loomed up ahead. The sight of the silvery shore brought with it a fresh flood of memories and with them came a surge of loneliness. As he sailed slowly past the familiar shore, images from the past begin to riffle through his mind. He saw his princess lying on her bed of leaves in the ruined mosque on Kinali Island — her laugh, her mischief, her long strong legs wound around him. He groaned. Not so long ago he had even imagined her as his wife. But as she knew from the beginning, it was never meant to be. With that certainty came a jarring sense of loss, as if a huge piece of his self had been washed away by the sea, leaving an empty place in his heart that would never be filled.

From: Venetian Bailo at Istanbul

To: The August Senators of Venice

Date: February 7, 1536

Most Honored Masters:

When I last reported on the sudden and unexpected marriage of the Ottoman Sultan to his Russian concubine, I never imagined I would be repeating a request for your action on yet another sudden regal wedding. Today heralds emerged into the streets to announce that the Sultan’s victorious return from Mesopotamia would be followed within ten days by the marriage of his much loved daughter, the Princess Saida, to a certain admiral. And this afternoon I received an official invitation to the event.

So once again a gift must be carefully chosen and dispatched with utmost haste. Allow me to bring it to your attention that this time the bride is not a jaded concubine who would be titillated by a novelty such as a jeweled clock. This bride is a young, innocent virgin — she had better be or heads will roll — raised by a strict grandmother and much loved by her father, the Sultan. That is to say, she is worthy of the finest of gifts, and delivered as close to the wedding date as possible.

It is only one day since the nuptials have been announced, and already gifts have begun to pile up in Topkapi Palace. You can believe me that to miss this opportunity to show our love for the Sultan would undermine the new ties of amnesty and friendship that we now enjoy, largely due to the amazing jeweled cuckoo clock.

Perhaps because of time constraints your eminences would prefer that I purchase the gift here in Istanbul. A set of signed tapestry bed curtains could be had. Or a blanket of sable fur with matching pillow covers. Or both.

Take note: this celebration is not an engagement to be solemnized in the future. It is a formal wedding announcement that calls for speedy delivery of an appropriate wedding gift. I need not assure you that, being fully aware of the value that the Ottomans place on protocol, nothing short of death itself will prevent my being present at the celebration of these nuptials.

I await your instructions.

Your servant,

Alvise Gritti

62

FORTES FORTUNA JUVAT

Day three aboard the
San Domenico
. The Venetian galleon cleared the shores of the last of the Princes’ Islands — the little island of Kinali, so redolent with memories. Soon the sailors would yield to oarsmen the delicate task of navigating the narrows leading from the Sea of Marmara to the eastern tip of the Mediterranean.

The passenger in the
pizola
had at last been given official permission to walk the decks, but only after the ship entered the Mediterranean. He had already been warned twice against attempting to go ashore at any of the ship’s Mediterranean ports of call.

“The eastern Mediterranean is an Ottoman lake,” the captain informed his charge. “Every port from Istanbul to the Venetian
dogana
falls under the sovereignty of the Ottoman Empire. And you cannot afford the risk of being recognized by the port police. Too dangerous.”

The sails were unfurled at sun-up the next day. Ahead lay Homer’s wine-dark sea. As he looked down from his perch at the prow, the passenger once known as Danilo del Medigo was reminded of an earlier Mediterranean voyage. He could almost see himself as a boy arriving at the Galata docks after a perilous crossing, walking down the gangway of the pirate ship with his mother’s book under his arm and her portrait by Andrea Mantegna plastered to his body like a shield. His only treasures then, his only treasures now. Except for a necklace of matched pearls, a purse full of gold, and a jeweled dagger. Not much to show for ten years of life in Istanbul.

And now, having survived his escape, he faced the prospect of weeks alone cooped up in the close quarters of the
pizola
with no relief except for his sanctioned daily walks around the deck. What he did have to look forward to: more of the hostile stares of the oarsmen, the crude jests of the crew, and the occasional bark from the captain to get back to his quarters and stay out of sight.

In search of solace, he looked to the heavens. But no helping hand reached down to lift him up and no sweet voice whispered courage into his ear. Even his mother had deserted him.

As if to mirror his thoughts, the bright sky had turned into a heavy, grey miasma. He was sailing alone into an unchartered sea. He might never see his father again and his princess was lost to him forever. Then, like an explosion, a shower of sunbeams shattered the fog. And as the mist lifted, he began to feel himself slipping free of the yoke of the past.

Now a voice spoke to him. Not the voice of his mother but his own voice muttering words his mother had taught him: Pliny the Elder’s credo,
fortes fortuna juvat
— fortune favors the bold.

Like a cue, the sound of the phrase in his own tongue unleashed a fresh rush of thoughts. What if the princess was right? What if our whole life was written somewhere in a book? Or in the stars? What if fate and not chance had put him on board the
San Domenico
bound for the city of his birth? No matter that his fraudulent papers called him Davide dei Rossi, he was still Danilo del Medigo, the first child to be born in the Venetian ghetto. Could the hand of Fortuna be guiding him back to his homeland? To Italia? Was he, as his princess would have said, living out his destiny?

Perhaps it was the comfortable rocking motion of the waves that washed up against the deck of the galley as it sailed past the Peloponnese toward the port of Venice. Perhaps it was simply the passage of the day. But, in the weeks that followed, Danilo found the strength to climb out of the swamp of disappointment and hopelessness that had threatened to overcome him as his ship threaded its way through the narrows. By the time the
San Domenico
veered north to enter the clear waters of the Adriatic, his vision was no longer menaced by the dark swirling depths of the Mediterranean. Bending over the rail to look down, what greeted his eyes was a vision of the sun’s rays dancing on the azure wavelets of the Adriatic heralding the dawn of a new day.