Shadow of God (9 page)

The morning grew warm. Suleiman shrugged off the heavy, gold-embroidered outer cape he wore over his white, silk caftan. He gave it to the page who rode a few yards behind him. Another page carried his jeweled water bottle and a third his fighting sword. Suleiman was dressed completely in white, except for his soft, brown, leather riding boots. His huge, white turban shone bright as the orange morning hues gave way to shimmering white light of the forenoon. The three white heron’s feathers held to the turban with a clasp of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds swayed with the movement
of his horse, and resembled wheat moving in a soft breeze. The heat began to rise from the sand in the road, and the dust hung longer in the air as the riders moved on.

The entourage had left the
caravanserai
before dawn, and traveled slowly throughout the day. Suleiman knew he should be exhausted already, but he was abuzz with the thought that he was now, in fact, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. He was soon to be the most powerful man on Earth. Only a short ceremony stood between him and the reality; nothing more than his girding with the Sword of the House of Osman.

He could hardly keep track of his thoughts. As Sultan, he would have to give up the leisurely life of a provincial governor, a life that had allowed him ample time to relax with his family and his friend, Ibrahim. His infant son, Mustapha, was one of Suleiman’s greatest joys, and he treasured their time together with Gülbehar in the country. But, most of all, he worried about his future with Ibrahim. How would life in the Palace change their relationship? What role would Ibrahim play in the complex structure of his empire?

As if summoned by the Sultan’s thoughts, Ibrahim appeared suddenly at Suleiman’s left side. His horse was breathing hard, and seemed to have found the night’s ride more draining than Suleiman’s mount.

“A wonderful day is upon us, my Lord, is it not?”

“It is, indeed. I wonder what lies along this path.”

“I think not much to worry about. Your guard precedes us, and they will see to our safety, surely.” Though Ibrahim was only a year older than Suleiman, his large frame and barrel chest made him seem much older. He had dark hair with olive skin and deep-set brown eyes. His bushy eyebrows were always unkempt.

“That is not what I meant. There are many roads that we shall take, and they are long and arduous ones. As well as dangerous. There is
this
road that takes us to the Tomb of Ayyüb, where Piri Pasha will gird me with the sword of my ancestors. Then there is the road to the throne in the New Palace. There is where my new empire will find its home. My mother, the
Sultan Valideh
, and my
Kadin
—my First Lady—Gülbehar, the Flower of Spring, will be there. But, there
are many roads after that, and I fear there will be many turnings to confuse our path. What do you think?”

Ibrahim did not answer at once, and Suleiman did not repeat his question. He knew that Ibrahim was a thoughtful man, who weighed his words carefully. The young Sultan trusted Ibrahim’s judgment as much as he would from an older man. Ibrahim’s hesitation was not guile, but rather the determination to be a good and true adviser to his master. The two had been together since they both were boys.

Ibrahim was born at Parga, on the west coast of Greece, to Christian parents. When he was a young child, he was captured by Turkish pirates and sold as a slave to a widow who lived near Magnesia in Asia Minor. The woman had tried to give the young boy a good education and help him to rise above his status as a slave. When Selim sent Suleiman to govern Manisa at the age of seventeen, Ibrahim’s mother sent him to enter the service of the young prince as his slave, and the two became immediately inseparable.

Ibrahim was a godsend for Suleiman, whose youth had been empty of friends. Ibrahim was already a linguist even as a teenager, speaking flawless Greek, French, and Turkish, and was able to get along quite well in Italian and Persian. Both the boys loved to read, and would pass many of their hours together studying history and reading aloud to each other. Ibrahim was also a natural musician, entertaining Suleiman by singing and playing the viol for him. As the unofficial playmate and nearly a brother to the prince, Ibrahim shared all of Suleiman’s education and activities. The boys would hunt together, and fish and swim. They rode horses, shot arrows, and played polo together. They even took meals together, shared the same tent, and oft times, the same bed. The exploration of their sexuality seemed natural enough, at least until the time when Suleiman would ascend to the throne. Then his attention would be expected to shift to the harem, and eventually to the production of an heir. In the meantime, life was sweet and exciting for the two young men.

As the years passed and they grew into manhood, they still passed most of their days and nights together. Over time, the
differences in their station slowly became more apparent. Most of the members of the court foresaw the day when the prince would have to pay off his boyhood friend and move on to the duties of his governing.

But, that was not to be the case. Suleiman depended upon the loyalty of this long-standing friendship, and kept Ibrahim by his side. As the men loved to hunt together, Ibrahim rose quickly to the post of Chief Falconer. Later, he became Master of the Horse. Because high-court members were granted military rank, he would soon become Captain of the Inner House. But, whatever the title, Ibrahim was always Suleiman’s closest friend, adviser, surrogate brother, and sometimes lover. The mores of Ottoman Turkey were not much changed from those of the warriors in ancient Sparta, where it was felt that in a fighting force, where celibacy was the norm, a man would be more likely not to disgrace himself in battle in the presence of his lover.

Ibrahim’s role as surrogate brother was critical to Suleiman as well, because of the Mehmet’s Law of Fratricide. Upon attaining the throne, Suleiman would have been forced to put a true brother to death. Fortunately, Suleiman had no real brothers. For his part, Ibrahim treasured his friendship with the prince equally, and not only for the riches and privilege that it brought him. He would as gladly die in the service of his friend as for his Sultan.

That dawn, as they had left the
caravanserai
, a dervish Muslim had grabbed at Suleiman’s reins before the guards had set up the formal protective perimeter for the coming journey. Swords flashed from their scabbards as the Janissaries rushed to protect their Sultan. But Suleiman held up his hand, stopping his guard from cutting the old man to pieces. The dervish held onto the reins near the horse’s mouth, and began to speak to his master. This was entirely improper, and Ibrahim would have stopped it had he not seen the softness for the old man in Suleiman’s eyes.

“Yes? What is it you have to tell me,
Dede
?” The word “Grandfather” was spoken in a tone of respect, not derision.

The dervish spoke to Suleiman, almost chanting as if he were saying a poem or a prayer. “You bear the name of ancient Solomon,
the wisest king among kings. The name of Solomon who was known all throughout the world for his wisdom.”

Suleiman nodded, as the old man went on.

“You are the Tenth ruler of the House of Osman. You are called to rule at the dawn of the Tenth Century of Islam. In every age, but one is appointed to grasp the era by the horns…”

The number ten was of greatest significance to the Turks: ten is the number of divisions of the Holy
Qur’an
; there are ten commandments in the Pentateuch; Mohammed, the Prophet of God, had ten disciples; ten is the number of fingers and toes. Ten was the perfect number, and Suleiman was born in the first year of the tenth century, by the Muslim calendar, which dates from the
Hegira
, the Prophet’s flight from Mecca.

Suleiman leaned down to hear the man’s frail voice. But, the old man said no more. He seemed exhausted by the effort and the strain of speaking to his Sultan. He let go of the reins and moved away. Ibrahim handed a small sack of coins to a servant, and sent him after the old dervish. Suleiman looked at Ibrahim with a puzzlement on his face.

“Did this dervish speak a prophesy of my future, Ibrahim?”

Ibrahim only nodded. He was not a superstitious man, and he knew that his master was not one either. “He did, my Lord. And a propitious one at that.”

“This old man has a wisdom we can only hope to achieve with time. His age is greater than yours and mine combined. Think what wisdom and experience are there in his head and in his heart. Just think of it!”

Again, Ibrahim responded with a nod.

The previous night, before they had departed the
caravanserai
, Suleiman’s officers had brought copies of the orders for the debarkation and the moving of his household and family to Istanbul. Suleiman took the pen and began to sign the orders. When he looked up, he saw that the eyes of all the soldiers were on him. There was something different, and he could not put his finger on it. When he had asked Ibrahim about it later, his friend replied, “You are not the same man you were yesterday, my Lord. They know
that now. And so do you. You woke yesterday as the governor of a very minor province in a very insignificant part of Asia Minor.”

Suleiman looked hurt for a moment. But, Ibrahim smiled, and said, “Do not look back, Majesty. You are, indeed, fortunate. You have no brothers to race you to the imperial city. There are no enemies to draw their reins across your path. All power waits for the touch of your hand. Even Piri Pasha, Selim’s Grand Vizier, waits to bend his head before the Shadow of God on Earth. With good fortune such as yours, there is
nothing you
cannot do. Nothing!”

Suleiman smiled at his friend, and turned in the saddle. He looked behind him and laughed, “Except turn
back
upon this road.” Then, he spurred his horse and dashed ahead of the startled Ibrahim, down the road to Istanbul.

For three more days, Suleiman’s small band moved north along the Aegean coast. Then, they turned east inland to parallel the Dardanelles. As they rode along, Suleiman noticed how the people’s livelihoods changed with the terrain. Here they toiled to bring in crops of barley and wheat, and there they pushed their flocks of sheep over broken ground to better grazing lands. Still others tended arbors of olive trees.

Suleiman thought about these people; their hard lives. In the countryside, the Ottoman Turks lived constantly on the edge. Their meager livelihood could be wiped out with a single hailstorm, a lightning bolt, a flash flood, or any number of incurable diseases. Life was harsh, and death always in waiting.
How,
he wondered,
can I as their Sultan change their lot in life? While I live in luxury in Istanbul, these people live in rags and hovels. While I eat and drink my fill each day, they are often at the very edge of starvation. How can I change this for them? What can I do?
Suleiman shook his head and brought his mind back to the journey. There was so much for him to do, so many decisions for him to make.

As the procession neared the city, it was clear that people knew their Sultan Selim was dead, and that the Son of Selim was coming to claim his sword–to claim the Empire. The small clutches of quiet peasants grew into noisy crowds. The crowds turned into cheering
mobs, until wild throngs pressed along the highway trying to get a glimpse of the new Emperor; to touch his stirrups; to see his face.

The Janissaries and the Sipahis were hard pressed to keep the crowd back. The household guard became frightened for the Sultan’s safety, for they were surrounded by farmers and workers, all armed with tools of steel—farming tools that could easily become weapons. Hardly a man in that crowd did not possess at least a knife on his person, and some carried axes, scythes, and heavy staffs.

The mounted Sipahis and the Janissaries on foot formed an unbroken phalanx three deep, surrounding their master, trying to present a solid human wall within which the new Sultan would be safe. The Janissaries pressed closest to their master. The Sipahis on their war horses formed the outer ring. The horses, too, sensed the tension from their masters. They stamped the ground and snorted as the riders held them in tight rein. Only Suleiman’s horse seemed oblivious to the excitement around him, walking with an even and unhurried gait. But, no attack came, and the procession moved on.

As they passed the old capital at Bursa, the Green City, they caught their first sight of the Sea of Marmara. They passed the lake near Nicaea, where Selim had returned from his campaigns in Afghanistan and Persia, and had brought home craftsmen who set up workshops to make porcelain for all the world.

Finally, the party reached the ferry station at Üsküdar across the Bosporus from Istanbul. The crowds were kept back by ten thousand Palace Janissaries who had been sent out by Bali Agha from the capital. These elite soldiers reinforced Suleiman’s own guard, as he dismounted from his tired, lathered horse. Two pages led the horse away, while Suleiman walked to the waiting ferry. Through the haze rising from the water, Suleiman could just make out the landmarks of the great city. He could see the slim towers of the minarets flanking the holy mosque of Aya Sofia on the opposite shore. Barely visible were the walls and the buildings of
Yeni Serai,
the New Palace, which was soon to be his home. Eventually, the world would know this as the Palace of the Cannon Gate, the Topkapi. He stepped down into the ferry and sat upon the embroidered cushions placed for him across the rich carpets that covered the wooden seat.