The Wanderer (51 page)

I could not but reflect seriously upon what he said. With trembling hands I raised the wine to my lips and sought in it the courage that I lacked. I thought it unfair of Andy to blame me for his defection, and said with some heat, “Pray remember that we took the turban independently of one another; I never asked you to do it. Though if we must go to hell for our sins I admit we shall most likely go side by side—indeed, for once I may be a step ahead of you, being a scholar and therefore more answerable for my actions than you.”

Andy replied impatiently, “I’ll account to the Lord for my own actions without troubling you. But why did He strike down my wife and son? What sin can my little boy have committed? I learned as a child how vain it is for a poor man to hope for justice in this world, but all the more confidently did I hope for it in the next.”

I know not whether the wine had given me courage or merely clouded my judgment, but for the first time in my life I confessed to myself that I was the worst of all heretics.

“Andy,” I said gravely, “I’m weary of quibbles and of juggling with words.
Only in
a man’s own heart is
God to
be found, and
no man
can save another by expounding texts, be they in Latin, Arabic, or Hebrew. If indeed there is an eternal, omnipotent, and omniscient God, would He trouble to aim His wrath at a poor worm like you?”
 

Andy’s head shook and tears rolled into his great hands as he said, “Perhaps you’re right, Michael. Who am I that God’s great cannon should be trained on me? Give me a truss of straw to lie upon for a few days, Michael, and a little bread; I will get over this as best I may and consider how to start life afresh. It’s only in stories that men win a princess and half a kingdom. In the days of my great happiness I used to fancy that I must be dreaming, and soon I think I shall be able to believe it. First I will take the edge off sorrow by getting properly drunk; then in the drabness and headache of waking I shall remember the past in all humility as a dream too fair for an oaf like me.”
 

His resignation so deeply moved me that I too wept, and together we mourned the sorrows and vanities of life. Andy being already very drunk I fetched a sleeping draught from my medicine chest, and mixed enough of it with his wine to stun an ox. Soon he sank back unconscious on the floor, to all appearances dead save for a faint whistling in his nose.

He slept for two days and nights, and when he woke he took a little to eat. I did not vex him with needless chatter, but left him alone to dangle his legs from the jetty and stare at the restless waters of the Bosphorus.

Some days later he came to me and said, “I know I’m a burden to you here, and especially to your wife, so I shall keep out of the way and live with your Negroes in the boathouse, if you’ll let me. But give me work to do—the heavier the better. Idleness irks me, and I would like to do something in return for
my
food and sleeping place.”
 

I was abashed at his words, for Giulia had indeed pointed out somewhat sharply that Andy ate at least three aspers’ worth of food a day and used a mattress and blanket that properly belonged to the Negroes;
 

she also suggested that he should bestir himself a little to earn his keep. And although I should have preferred to see Andy treated as an old friend of the family, I summoned Alberto and asked him to find suitable work—a request that he seemed to have been expecting. He took Andy at once to the northwest corner of the garden, which had not yet been cleared, and told him to break stones and build a terrace there. It was an improvement long planned, and postponed because of the expense. Andy also chopped wood and carried water to the kitchen, and all with such good will that even the slaves began leaving him their work to do. He tried to avoid us, but Giulia often purposely stood in his path to gloat over his degradation. Nevertheless it seemed to me at times that Andy, as he bowed and shambled off to do her bidding, was silently laughing at her; this I took as a sign of his recovery.

War was again imminent, and this time camel trains set forth months in advance, carrying bridge-building materials to the banks of the Danube tributaries. Charles V proclaimed the Turkish peril in all the German states, and by thus spreading alarm among the people he succeeded also in inflaming them against the Protestant princes. I could not but admire his astute use of a situation on which the Grand Vizier had based his own hopes for a successful campaign. I observed these things with the impartial eye of an onlooker, and one with personal experience of German lands of which Ibrahim, as a Moslem, could have only a dim idea.

To my great joy Ibrahim thought it best for me to remain in Istanbul in charge of his secret business, though I could not tell from his expression whether this order was a mark of special favor or a sign of lessening confidence. Mustafa ben-Nakir had lately arrived in the Sultan’s capital, having journeyed first from Persia to India in company with old Suleiman the eunuch, Viceroy of Egypt, and then after countless adventures returned to Basra aboard an Arabian smuggler. He had grown thinner and his eyes seemed bigger than before, but he was otherwise unchanged. The scent of the costly oils with which he anointed his hair spread agreeably through the room, the silver bells jingled at girdle and knee, and the book of Persian poems was worn with diligent use, I greeted him as a long-lost friend, and Giulia, too, was glad to see him. He sought out Andy and sat for a long time cross legged in the grass watching him break stones for the terrace. But although Mustafa ben-Nakir’s sole purpose in coming seemed to be to describe in glowing colors the wonders and the wars of India, he had in fact secret business with me and took me to meet the renowned eunuch Suleiman.

Suleiman the eunuch was at this time a man of some seventy years, and so fat that his little eyes had almost disappeared. Four strong slaves were needed to raise him to his feet when once he had sat down. He had attained the viceroyalty of Egypt by his unswerving fidelity. In the past, otherwise competent viceroys of wealthy, decadent Egypt had fallen a prey to all manner of ambitious dreams until it seemed as if a curse lay over that ancient land.

But because of his enormous bulk and his age, Suleiman was too lazy and also too astute to contemplate rebellion against the Sultan, and had of course no sons to whom he might be tempted to bequeath a crown, nor any ambitious wife to egg him on. And although he looked with delight upon beautiful slave girls and kept two of them about him to scratch the soles of his feet, this was, so far as I know, his only indulgence. He did not even care to rob the Sultan to any great extent, and punctually remitted his yearly tribute without arousing among his subjects the customary lamentations. He was thus a most unusual man and because of his independent position was almost equal in rank to the Grand Vizier. It was a great honor for me to be received and addressed by him.

“Deeply though I deplore the needless trouble he puts himself to,” he began, “and his restless wandering from place to place, yet because of the beauty of Mustafa ben-Nakir’s eyes and his bewitching manner of reading poetry aloud I find myself compelled to listen to him. But now, no doubt because of his unpleasant experiences of Portuguese pirates in India, he has taken it into his head that the honor of Islam requires the liberation of the princes of Diu and Calicut from the Portuguese yoke. In the course of his long journeys he has formed useful friendships to this end, and has heard from reliable sources that these two unhappy princes would gladly welcome the Sultan’s sea janissaries as liberators.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir regarded me with his clear, innocent eyes and said, “Those brigands have stopped the Mussulman spice trade and carried away the cargos in their own ships round Africa to Europe. They oppress the inhabitants of Diu and rob the Arabian merchants—indeed, they rob even their own king by sending inferior spices to Lisbon and keeping the pepper to sell to Moslem smugglers at usurers’ prices. The Portuguese have instituted a reign of terror in India that is a disgrace to all Islam—to say nothing of the loss of trade, both to the Sultan’s dominions and to our true friends the Venetians. The unhappy Indians yearn for the coming of the Deliverer.”

“Allah is Allah!” I said. “Let me hear no more of deliverers, Mustafa ben-Nakir; I am older and wiser than I was in Algeria, and the word leaves a taste of blood behind it. Speak out and tell me what you want and what I am to gain by it, and for the sake of our friendship I will give you what help I may.”

Suleiman the eunuch sighed heavily and glanced at Mustafa ben- Nakir, saying, “What times we live in! You youngsters have no notion of the pleasure to be found in leisurely bargaining, and you stifle the art of conversation for which so admirable an opportunity has now arisen. What fever has overtaken the world? Whither are you hurrying? To the grave? But you may give my purse to your greedy friend, Mustafa ben-Nakir, if you can come at it beneath my cushions.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir felt beneath the heavily flattened cushions and brought out a handsome purse whose weight at once convinced me of Suleiman’s sincerity. With hands folded over his vast belly he sat sighing with contentment, while a lovely girl scratched the sole of his right foot. He closed his eyes, curled his toes voluptuously, and said, “Though all is vanity and a chasing after shadows, yet despite my age I have been entranced by the flowery lyrics of Mustafa ben-Nakir’s speech and inspired to accomplish heroic deeds. Being an old sailor I’m also assailed by a senile jealousy of the much-praised Khaireddin, who is and ever will be a pirate. For a man of my girth a large ship is the safest and most comfortable means of transport, and I know nothing more agreeable than sitting beneath an awning on the poop deck, gently rocked by the sea breezes. My digestion functions incomparably better at sea than on land, and that for a man of my age and proportions is of supreme importance. During storms or when roundshot sing over the vessel my bowels display an incredible activity. Regularity is the foundation of health, young men, and for that reason alone I should like to build a Red Sea fleet and so spend as much time as I may on the water. I should have no objection if Ottoman historians were to record that Suleiman-pasha the eunuch conquered India for his stomach’s sake. There is nothing to laugh at, Michael el-Hakim. Disorders of the stomach have influenced world history before now and will do so again. Nothing is too petty or too insignificant for Allah to make use of in weaving his great carpet.”

I could not forbear smiling at the singular pretext he had chosen, but Mustafa ben-Nakir looked at me with the utmost gravity and said, “You’re a man of perception, Michael el-Hakim, yet even reasoned conclusions may lead one astray. My friend Suleiman, unlike most men, is under no necessity of lying. Were it gold he coveted, he would find more than enough of it in Egypt. As for military glory, he rates it about as highly as the bodily function of which he has so eloquently spoken. But I read in your eyes that you don’t believe him, from which we must regretfully infer that no one in the Seraglio will believe him either—perhaps not the Grand Vizier himself.”

Suleiman the eunuch wheezily interposed, “That is why we need your advice, Michael el-Hakim. And besides this, the sea pashas approve no fleets but their own. The money, vessels, and materials secretly offered me by the Signoria only increase the delicacy of the matter. In short, I cannot submit my plans to any but the Grand Vizier himself. You must convince him that there is nothing wrong in what I ask. Let him then persuade the Sultan to remit, say, a third of the annual tribute from Egypt for the next three years. With that sum I can build the Red Sea fleet. Warships are the most expensive toys ever invented, and I should be loath to impose extra taxes on Egypt. At the same time it would be beneath the Sultan’s dignity to allow his fleet to be paid for entirely by foreign powers.”

Twist and turn the matter as I would, I could only conclude that Suleiman was sincere and that apart from his digestion, solicitude for the Sultan alone induced him to put forward these proposals, so as to bring the vast profits of the spice trade once more under the Sultan’s control. Mustafa ben-Nakir watched my expression narrowly and said, “You must see that Suleiman-pasha cannot propose this of himself. After seeming opposition to the plan he will give in and build the fleet, and take it to India if the Sultan so commands. Michael, here is the opportunity of your life. If you succeed and have a share in this enterprise from the beginning, the princes of the West will one day envy you your riches.”

Suleiman stretched his fat legs and curled his toes luxuriously, saying, “I have few passions, but I love to collect human beings. I love to see the varied forms in which Allah molds his dust, to inspire it with the breath of his nostrils. I have taken a fancy to your anxious eyes, Michael el-Hakim, and marvel at the deep line so prematurely drawn between your brows. You will ever be welcome to Cairo as my guest, and the time may come when you’ll be glad of a refuge and a protector beyond the range of the Sultan’s artillery. Victory and defeat are in the hands of Allah, and who knows what the morrow may bring?”

Indian affairs so captured my imagination that I did all I could to secure Ibrahim’s support for Suleiman’s plan. And although because of the impending war the Seraskier had many other things on his mind, he did not fail to mention the matter to the Sultan, who secretly commanded Suleiman the eunuch to build his fleet, ostensibly to defend the Red Sea against the ever more daring raids of Portuguese pirates. But for this the Sultan would accept no help from Venice.

Once again I begin a new book, and this time in the name of Allah, the Merciful and Compassionate. For my eighth book will show how the worm of decay was already nibbling at the fairest of blossoms, and perhaps also poisoning my own poor renegade’s heart.

BOOK 8.
Roxelana