The Wanderer (50 page)

At long last the envoys would be ushered into the golden-colonnaded chamber of the Divan, though not until they had first been dazzled by a display in the janissaries’ courtyard. Here elephants with gilded tusks were to be seen, and the magnificent procession of the viziers and their retinue. Dazed and bewildered by these splendors they found themselves bowing before the Sultan—a sultan seated upon a pearl- incrusted throne. With every breath the thousand jewels of his golden robe winked and flashed, and the ambassadors soon perceived how highly they were honored in being permitted to kiss that jeweled hand and listen to the meaningless compliments with which Suleiman was pleased to greet them. Throughout their stay in Istanbul they had felt entangled in the meshes of an invisible net; at best all they received was a signed letter from the Sultan to take home with them, and they had soon to confess that the document was worth no more than the embroidered purse in which it lay.
 

Such was the treatment meted out to official negotiators, and matters were no better when the Grand Vizier consented to come to my house and there, over a cup of wine, interview some Spanish nobleman or Italian adventurer who at the Emperor’s behest sought a private audience. Through such agents
Charles V sought to feel the Grand Vizier’s pulse on the question of the partition of the world. By boasting of his influence with the Sultan, Ibrahim would lead his opponent on to reveal his true motives and aims. Yet however warmly he appeared to approve the proposals he was careful never to commit himself. The Sultan himself made no pronouncements, and where this subject was concerned would have nothing whatever to do with foreign spokesmen. Nevertheless he was always intensely interested to discover through the Grand Vizier how far the Emperor was willing to compromise.
 

I believe that both Sultan and Grand Vizier sincerely wished for peace at this time, yet all the fumbling conferences came to nothing because neither side would trust the other. It was in principle impossible for the Sultan, as Ruler of the Faithful, to consider a lasting peace with unbelievers, since the Koran expressly forbade such a policy. And for his part the Emperor, like the cynical statesman he was, would naturally take the first opportunity of uniting the Christian countries against the Sultan regardless of fair promises and secret treaties, because he rightly saw in the Ottoman Empire a constant menace to imperial power and to Christendom itself.

Sorrowfully I now learned the futility of all politics and saw that however lofty his motives, man cannot control the march of events. The Grand Vizier required my presence at these meetings so that if necessary I could testify that he had ever acted in his lord’s best interests. And as I listened I acquired a widening knowledge of political problems. I learned that one could talk long and eloquently and yet say nothing, and all too plainly I beheld the pettiness, selfishness, vanity, and weakness of mankind. The company of poets and dervishes had trained me in discerning the emptiness of worldly honors. I tried not to set too much store by my position, provided I might keep my fortune, for thanks to this, Giulia could live the life she craved and I was spared her eternal nagging. She measured success in money and valuables, and in her more amiable moments she would even admit that I had not proved so unenterprising as she had feared. She would have liked to see me stand with folded arms and modestly lowered eyes in the colonnaded chamber of the Divan when the kaftans of honor were conferred, but happily she found enough food for her vanity among the ladies of the harem. Even the Sultan’s mother received her in the Old Seraglio, though she suffered a severe heart attack because of Giulia’s prophecies. For I had cautiously guided Giulia’s thoughts in the right direction, and she was so rash as to predict that Sultana Khurrem’s son Selim would succeed to the Ottoman throne. Strangest of all, Giulia herself implicitly believed her own prophecy and began to behave toward Prince Selim with the utmost respect and veneration.

From time to time she would bring me news or warnings plainly originating with Sultana Khurrem and intended by that guileful woman to reach the Grand Vizier through me. But for his part, Ibrahim could not reconcile it with his dignity to enter into any communication with the Sultana with Giulia as intermediary. In this he made a great mistake and underrated the Sultana’s terrifying strength of will and vigilant ambition. But who at that time would have done otherwise ?

In the courts of the West the Sultana was known as Roxelana, the Russian woman. Presents, even from Christian princes, streamed to her through the golden portals of the harem; incredible stories were told of her luxurious way of life and her gorgeous clothes. One of her gowns was reputed to have cost a hundred thousand ducats. There were also tales of her cruel jealousy that made life in the harem a hell. If any woman there sought to attract the attention of the Sultan, or if he by chance glanced at one of them, Sultana Khurrem laughed gaily and saw to it that she disappeared.

I cannot say with certainty what gifts were sent her by the Emperor’s secret envoys or the King of Vienna, but during those uneasy months she did her utmost, Giulia told me, to induce the Sultan to make a treaty with the Emperor. Politically, of course, this was madness, for the Emperor had just been crowned by the Pope and had concluded peace with France, and thus stood at the height of his power. In the Diet of Augsburg he even succeeded in frightening the Protestant princes into obedience, and confident of victory was now preparing to make war on the Sultan. Indeed, in his quality of Most Catholic Majesty he implicitly obeyed the exhortation of Scripture not to let his right hand know what his left hand did. While secretly offering his left hand to the Sultan in token of peace, he slipped his right into a steel gantlet to deliver a crushing blow. Never before or since can the Ottoman Empire have been in such peril, and the Sultan’s desire for peace was easy to understand.

Fortunately, the only result of Charles V’s ultimatum to Germany was the founding by Philip of Hesse of a league of princes, in support of Luther’s teaching. King Zapolya and the King of France certainly had a finger in the pie, but the secret and I believe decisive reason for the princes’ defiance was Ibrahim’s promise of support in the event of war between them and the Emperor.

Which of these princes had their religious zeal stimulated by Turkish gold I cannot say, but Philip of Hesse at least found means to pay and equip his troops in a manner unaccountable to the Christians. I had my own reasons for frequently recalling the thin face and cold blue eyes of this man. Compared with the league he had formed, Father Julianus’s harmless preachings through Germany were of small significance. Luther and his pastors were now beginning to watch over the purity of their doctrine as jealously as ever did Holy Church, and to my sincere grief I must record that Father Julianus never returned to claim his bishopric. He was stoned to death in a small provincial town.

Thanks to the Schmalkald League, we were relieved of the heaviest of our anxieties, and the Sultan had no further need to listen to the advocates of peace. Grand Vizier Ibrahim on the contrary revived his ambitious plans for the conquest of the German states, with the Protestant princes’ support.

I disliked war, yet since for the well-being of the army a fresh campaign was necessary, it seemed to me that we had much to gain and nothing to lose by marching once more on Hungary. Among the mountains and barren wildernesses of Persia even a large army could vanish like a needle in a haystack. But in Germany the Schmalkald League bound the Emperor’s hands, and so favorable an opportunity might never return.

For Andy’s sake above all I looked upon war as something absolutely necessary, and I blamed myself for having neglected and forgotten my loyal friend for so long. One spring morning, when the tulips in my garden had unfolded their bright red and yellow cups, and fresh sea winds swept in from the sparkling Bosphorus, Andy knocked at my gate. Hearing the shouts of the porter I hurried up and at first failed to recognize my old friend. He came in barefoot with a sack on his back, wearing dirty leather breeches and a ragged turban, and I took him for one of the beggars that squatted in such numbers about my door. When I saw who it was I cried out in amazement, for Andy’s sturdy legs trembled with weariness, and his pale, staring face was twitching. He dropped the sack, pulled off his turban, and having gazed dully at me for some moments he said, “In the blessed name of the Prophet, Michael, get me something to drink—something strong—or I shall lose the remainder of my poor wits.”

I took him to the boathouse, drove out the Negroes who slept there, and with my own hands fetched him a keg of rare malmsey from the cellar. Andy knocked out the head of the keg, which he carried to his mouth, and in great gulps he drank half of what it contained. Soon the trembling in his limbs ceased and he sagged to the floor with a thud that shook the boards and sent dust flying from the joints of the walls. Then, hiding his face in his hands, he drew a deep breath and uttered so rending, so despairing a sob that I in my turn began to quake for dread.

“Michael,” he said, “I don’t know why I should burden you with my sorrows, but a man must turn to some friend at such a time. I don’t want to grieve you, but things are bad with me—as bad as they can be. Better if I had never been born into the misery of this world.”

“What in the name of Allah has happened?” I cried, in the deepest agitation. “You look as if you’d murdered someone.”

His bloodshot eyes were upon me as he answered, “I’ve been dismissed from the arsenal. They tore the plumes from my turban and kicked me out—they shook their fists and threw my belongings after me. I’m wretched, wretched.”

Relieved that it was no worse I admonished him, saying, “Is that all? You should have known what comes of drinking. But even if you have lost your pay, you’ve your wife’s fortune to turn to.”

With his head still in his hands he retorted, “I care nothing for the arsenal. We had an argument about the cannon and I told them their war galleys were only good for firewood. I wanted them to build bigger vessels to carry heavy ordnance, like the Venetians and Spaniards. So I went. He laughs best who laughs last. But I’m a sorrowful man and don’t expect to laugh ever again in this world.”

He seized the keg and poured more wine down his throat before continuing, “Your good colleague Master Gritti is behaving like a maniac in Hungary, and all the Transilvanian lords are at each other’s throats. But whether Hungarians or Moldavians, Wallachians or Tartars, all are agreed that no Mussulman shall own land in Hungary. My deed of conveyance from King Zapolya they put to what they considered its fit use before my very eyes, and have long since divided my flocks among themselves, slaughtered my cattle, and razed all the buildings to the ground. That poor Jew will suffer great loss, and I can’t get back a penny on all my lands, though they’re so wide that it takes a day and a night to ride from end to end of them. Sweet songs are brief songs, they say, and I own little but the breeches I have on.”

“But—but—” I stammered, realizing that I should have to take care of poor Andy once more, despite the friction this would cause with Giulia. Then, summoning courage, I clapped him on the shoulders and said, “We’ll find some way out, my dear Andy. But what has your wife to say to all this?”
 

“My wife,” said Andy absently. He raised the keg and emptied it at a draught. “I must have forgotten to tell you. The poor little girl is dead. And it was not an easy death. She suffered for three days before she went.”
 

“Jesus, Mary!” I cried, striking my hands together. “That is, Allah is Allah—Why did you not tell me this at first? I feel for you most deeply in your great sorrow. How did she die?”
 

“In childbirth, in childbirth!” said Andy in a tone of wonder. “And that was not the worst, for the child died, too.”
 

And so at last I learned all that had befallen Andy. He hid his face in his hands again and broke into such terrible weeping that the walls of the boathouse shook. I could find no words to comfort him in his boundless grief.

“It was a boy,” he managed to say at last. Then, enraged at his own weakness, he’ swore for the first time in many a long month in his own rough mother tongue,
“Per%ele!”
 

Without a word I returned to the cellar and fetched another barrel of wine. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“My little foal! Her cheeks were like peaches and her eyes like bilberries. I don’t understand. But even in the early days the Jewish physician advised her to take the baths at Bursa, and I’m glad to remember that she made the journey like a princess, though at the time I grumbled foolishly at the expense. The physician told me in his learned jargon that her organs had grown askew from too much riding as a young girl. And her loins were hard as ash, for young Hungarian ladies are in the wicked habit of riding astride like men.”

“Dear Andy, my brother and my friend! All these things were written in the stars before your birth. Sweet songs are brief songs, as you say, and you lived in your happiness so long as it pleased Allah. Who knows? She might have lived to weary of you and make eyes at some other man.”

Andy shook his heavy head. “Stop chattering, Michael, and tell me—were their deaths sent to punish me for deserting the Christian faith? I believe I’m as good a Moslem as any, though I can’t recite all the prayers. In my heart I’ve never denied our Lord or His mother—Mussulmans venerate them, too—and I’ve been sneered at for never treading the Cross underfoot. But as I was roaming about the city in my anguish I chanced to enter the Christian church, and when I heard the intoning of the priest and the ringing of the bell I seemed to hear also the devil himself laughing at me in mockery, because I’d forsaken God of my free will and at your bidding. For God’s sake, help me, Michael, and give me peace again. My son was not baptized and my wife neglected both confession and communion after our marriage, though in other ways she was a good Christian. It is frightful to think that because of my falling away they must burn in eternal fire.”