The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi (8 page)

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. From now on, everything you need will be provided for.”

“Everything?”

“Including your toothbrush,” was the answer. “Now try on these,” he said, holding out a pair of yellow leather boots soft as butter. “We measured them from your riding boots, but mistakes happen. I have left your new wardrobe with your father’s manservant. Be sure to wear everything in the box when you get dressed tomorrow morning. Those clothes will tell everyone that you are a student page — an
ich-oghlanlar
— not an apprentice. Understand?”

Danilo shook his head, uncomprehending.

“We have two types of pages in each of the Sultan’s schools: the student pages like ourselves, and the apprentice pages called
ajemi-oghlanlar.
They will become gardeners and gatekeepers and halberdiers and hangmen. Whereas we” — he paused for emphasis — “we will go on to rule the world.”

With that, Murad was gone, leaving Danilo sitting on his rock, not quite able to believe what had just happened. And there he remained, uncertain of his next move until, taken by some errant impulse, he made his way back to the Doctor’s House and headed straight for his father’s
studiolo.
There on the wall hung a Gregorian calendar, a relic of his father’s Italian life. He reached over for a quill, dipped it in the inkstand, and carefully circled the day’s date: August 28 in the year 1530.
This
, he told himself,
is the happiest day of my life.

It was not until nightfall, when he drew his bed curtains aside, that he fully realized that this would be his last night under the familiar silken coverlet. It had been his comfort since the first night he slept in his father’s house, and he felt a powerful urge to wrap it around himself one more time. Instead, he turned away from the bed toward the box of clothes that Murad had left for him. When he opened it, there lay his new life, neatly folded. One by one, he began to shed his familiar garments and substitute each one with its replacement.

First came the new undergarments, not so different from the ones he was wearing but laundered to a whiteness never achieved in his father’s laundry. Then the
shalvars,
perhaps a little more shapely than his regular trousers, but of a linen similar to what his father bought for him. The girdle was quite another matter. Made from cloth of gold and fastened with a golden clasp, it was the finest thing that he had ever worn in his life. After that came a shiny satin vest and a linen pocket handkerchief. All in all, a most generous gift. But Murad had saved the best for last.

At the bottom of the box lay a brocaded caftan wrapped in a linen bag. Danilo unwrapped it carefully and held it up against his body, dazzled by the richness of the fabric. Even his father did not own a caftan of such quality. Slipping into it was like stepping into another world. As he fastened the jeweled buttons, he began slowly to glide around the room, brocaded and bejeweled, bowing and murmuring greetings to unseen guests, as he had observed members of the Sultan’s entourage doing.

Only once did it occur to him to wonder how his father would have viewed these trappings of Oriental decadence. And the moment the thought came, he banished it from his mind. Luckily, Judah was absent on an herb-buying jaunt to Venice and was not there to cluck his disapproval.

The next morning, just as the
muezzin
announced his second prayer of the day, Murad appeared as promised and, after a quick wardrobe inspection, led his charge across the Third Court past the massive columns and into the Palace School. There, poised at the giant doors of the Great Hall, the senior page paused to remove his boots, an example that Danilo quickly followed. When he looked up, what lay before his eyes almost took his breath away — a vast space paved in a black and white marble pattern, bordered by massive marble pillars, and topped by a painted dome smothered in azure and gold flowers. It presented a stunning contrast to the cozy Harem School. What made it seem even grander in Danilo’s eyes was that the hall was almost completely empty at this hour except for the few pages who flitted back and forth like shadows without making a sound. In these precincts, Murad explained, silence was enforced out of respect for the Sultan, should he happen to honor them with a visit.

From the Great Hall, they proceeded through a labyrinth of marbled corridors until they reached a wide portal carved with a single motto, a warning to all on the premises that God ruled:
La Ilaha’ Illa Allah Mohamed Rasoul Allah
. There is only one God and Mohamed is his prophet.

“And now we come to what will be your residence, the Hall of the First
Oda
,” Murad announced as he ushered Danilo through the portal of his future home.

Perhaps the grandeur of the entrance hall had led him to expect too much. Whatever the reason, Danilo could hardly contain his disappointment at the meagerness of the dormitory. The room was big, God knows, but crowded from end to end with rows of tiny cubicles and hemmed in by a gallery halfway up the wall from which the entire room could be observed. In the Doctor’s House, his father had provided him with a spacious, sunny private room, a soft bed, and a carved desk. Here, he was presented with a cell not much larger than his old bed, featuring a thin pallet, a lumpy kind of quilt, and a small storage chest, which, Murad explained, would do double duty as a desk.

Although Danilo tried his best, he could not conceal his disappointment from his sharp-eyed mentor.

“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” Murad assured him. “The competition for places on the
gerit
team begins tomorrow, and if you land a place on the team — which I hear is more than possible — you’ll move right in with us, into the Third
Oda
. But first you need a haircut.” With that, he led the way through the dormitory to an adjoining suite of rooms, the
hamam
.

Being still young and of fair complexion, Danilo had not much to show in the way of a beard and therefore not much to lose when it was summarily shaved off. But he had continued to keep his blond hair at shoulder length in the Italian style throughout his years in the Harem School. In a way, that cap of golden curls was his badge of identity. Now the curled locks lay all around him on the floor, except for one tress in front of each ear carefully trimmed to line up with the tip of his nose. He left the barber’s chair feeling naked. The loss of his privacy, he could tolerate. But his hair . . . More than any other thing, that first haircut brought Danilo a glimmering of what it meant to be the Sultan’s personal property, to be done with as his master wished.

Murad hurried him along to the first meal of the day, then being served. On this day, the new page was given special permission to take his meals with Murad and other members of the
gerit
team in the Hall of the Commissariat, all of them handsome, all good-spirited, all hungry like himself, and all ready to welcome a fellow athlete whose reputation for prowess with the
gerit
had preceded him. Just as Murad had planned it, this glimpse of what his life in the Palace School could become restored Danilo’s will to make the team, or die trying.

Mind you, in living memory, no member of the First
Oda
had ever made the leap straight to the
gerit
team in the first try. But then, no Jew had ever been accepted to the Palace School either. And Danilo gathered from the hints he got at the commissary table that his value to the team had been the deciding factor in his acceptance to the school. Tidbits of conversation such as, “the team has been in need of some younger blood” and “we’re looking forward to riding with you” and “it’s time that every
oda
was represented on the team,” suggested that his masters would likely want to make quick use of the talent they had selected him for.

That night, at the end of his first day and second meal, Murad brought his charge back to his dormitory, not as unabashedly happy as he had been before the haircut but fairly optimistic about his possibilities. After showing him how to unroll his blanket and how to hang it up the next morning, and teaching him the pages’ main prayer for the Sultan — for the repose of the souls of dead sultans and for the guidance of the priests of the
Ulema
— it was time for Murad to say goodbye.

But wait. Just one more thing. As soon as Danilo received his first pocket money, he would be free to buy his own clothes. “But be sure,” Murad warned, “to dress in a manly fashion. Especially do not choose feminine colors.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, you know. Fuchsia or lavender. No black. And remember, you are the Sultan’s page. People are watching you. Always have your clothes pressed and your caftan buttoned; underwear clean and — important — a fresh pocket handkerchief every day.” This was the third time that day he had heard about the pocket handkerchief. It had been a long day. He had been shorn of his hair, like Samson, and pummeled and harangued and ordered around from sun-up to sunset. He had had enough.

But Murad, concerned lest he fail in his tutorial duties, plunged on. “Pay attention to what I tell you. You must be sure to take a bath at least once a week. And get a weekly manicure and pedicure. And shave at least twice a week. And have a haircut once a month.”

Danilo was quite certain he had been given these instructions in full at the
hamam
that morning, but it seemed rude to interrupt so he nodded his understanding and let the lecture continue to roll over him. And roll on it did.

“It is anathema to manicure in public or to splash water on others in the
hamam.
And, in the dining hall, don’t forget, never begin to eat until your superiors have been served and do not gobble up the food with your eyes no matter how hungry you are. Or eat in haste or talk with your mouth full. Above everything else, Allah forbid should you belch or hiccough during a meal.” Had he not been so tired, Danilo would have become resentful by now. But he nodded agreeably, anything to get rid of his new
lala
.

“Last thing. In the street, no yawning, no stretching, no scratching, and no hunting for fleas.”

Again, Danilo nodded obediently and was rewarded with a sudden curt, “I bid you good night.” At last.

But as he was drifting off he heard, as if from a far-off distance, the voice of Murad droning on in his head. “Something I need to tell you . . .”

This voice was not in his head. This voice was beside his ear on the pillow. This voice belonged to a hand that was shaking him awake. “This is important. Wake up and listen.”

Wearily, Danilo opened his eyes.

“I forgot to impart to you the advice I received from my mentor when I entered the school.” Would this endless tutelage never stop?

“Tomorrow?” Danilo asked hopefully.

“Tonight. There is paper and ink in your cask. Write this down. That way you will not forget.” And there he stood, implacable, a sterner enforcer than any teacher Danilo had ever had, including his Albanian riding instructor.

“Now write.”

Danilo dipped the pen into the ink and wrote, “A page must keep silent as a woodcutter in a Russian peasant’s house. He must comport himself as if honey were on his tongue and oil of almonds on his back. At times he must be blinder than a mole, deafer than a heathcock, more insensible than a polypus. But, at other times, he must have the eyes of a lynx and the ears of a Pomeranian wolf-dog. He must learn to turn his eyes always upon the ground (as if Danilo was too stupid not to have noticed that all the pages kept their eyes on the ground) and to keep his arms always crossed over his breast. (That too!) As he approaches manhood, he must become more circumspect, trust no one, expect the worst. Mankind is wicked. Self-interest is the mainspring of action. And virtue is mere hypocrisy. Remember this,” he concluded. “You know nothing of the world. How are old you? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” Danilo acknowledged.

“As I said, a boy. That school in the harem is a nursery. This school will make you a man of the world. Someday you will thank me for this advice, even if tonight you hate me for disturbing your sleep. So, good night.” This time, his mentor was gone for good. Left alone at last but now beyond fatigue, Danilo wondered if he was capable of remembering the catechism of instructions, which led him directly into questioning if he really wanted to.
Papa was right
, he thought.
This is no place for me. Rules, rules, rules. And a hard bed and bad food. Maybe I should give it up.

Even a visit to the stables to register for the
gerit
contest the next morning did little to rekindle his enthusiasm. As he trundled his heavy gear to the practice field, he found himself wondering why he was there. Only a few steps away lay the comfort and freedom of his father’s house. Why not just chuck the whole idea? Everybody knew that no page from the First
Oda
had a chance to play on the Sultan’s
gerit
team. And the thought of spending an entire year in the First
Oda
being watched and measured and found wanting loomed up gloomy, bleak, and dismal.

That was his mood when he entered the lists for the hurling contest the next morning. Of course he won the first round against the boys of the lower
oda
s. But what did that signify? Only that he was the best of the worst. And when the older contenders stepped up, his score was no better than their best. But in the riding ring, his mood began to change. It was one of those days when he could do nothing wrong. Riding backward toward the target, he fired off a stream of arrows and hit the target in the center every time. Galloping across the ring, he leaned down and retrieved a ball from the ground without slackening his pace for a moment. The entire afternoon went like that. And when he looked over at the judges’ stand just before the final test, whom should he see but his riding master from the Harem School motioning at him with both thumbs up. A very good sign.

The final round was a jump, the highest he had ever attempted. He cleared it with room to spare and cantered off the field, still far from confident that he had passed the test but pleased with himself for having done his best. Whether that was good enough, only time would tell.