The Wanderer (52 page)

THERE is but little to tell of the Sultan’s next campaign. It lasted from spring to autumn of the Christian year 1532, and came to nothing. Yet the march was eased by wise planning and perfect weather; strict discipline was maintained among the troops, and the three hundred pieces of artillery followed the marching columns without mishap. No general could have hoped for better conditions. But those who followed the progress on their maps noted with surprise that it slackened more and more as summer advanced. From midsummer onward, it became clear to the least experienced observer that indecision was delaying the march, until at last the whole of that gigantic army slowed to a halt and camped during August and September before the insignificant fortress of Guns.

Advocates of peace in the West made the most of this period of delay and doubt. Envoys from the Persian governor of Bagdad and from the Prince of Basra brought conciliatory messages to the Sultan, and their arrival seemed timed to show that at the most favorable moment for energetic action in the East the Seraskier had sent the army away to make needless and unprofitable war on the Emperor. Little wonder then that the Sultan paused so hesitantly before Guns, embittered by its stubborn resistance, yet for appearances’ sake he was compelled to persevere. “Instead of proceeding to Vienna, however, he marched from Guns toward imperial Carinthia, and his vanguard had reached
the gates of Graz before he felt justified by the lateness of the season in beginning his homeward march. And though the grisly trail of slaughter left by his forces struck terror to the hearts of Christians everywhere, yet this great enterprise turned out to be nothing but a disorderly, planless raid, bringing Suleiman no honor and causing trouble in his empire that was out of all proportion to the result.
 

The only people to profit by this campaign were the Protestant princes of Germany, whom it enabled to make a pact with the Emperor at Augsburg. This for the time being ensured their religious freedom. Thanks to the pact Charles was even able to induce Luther to preach in favor of a united crusade against the Turks. Thus Grand Vizier Ibrahim’s hopes fell to the ground, and it became clear that yet again the Christians had made shameless use of their secret commerce with the Porte to secure concessions from the Emperor for their own ends.
 

But I have not yet mentioned the hidden but decisive reason for the Sultan’s strange hesitation before the walls of Guns. At the opening of the spring offensive, a fleet of seventy sail had put to sea to defend the coasts of Greece. Early in August, on almost the very day that Ibrahim pitched his pavilion before Guns, this fleet was sighted by the combined navies of the Emperor, the Pope, and the Knights of St. John, as they lay at anchor in Preveza Bay. At the same moment
a
Venetian fleet of forty war galleys was seen rapidly approaching; these neutral vessels anchored at a convenient distance to await developments. It is my belief that the hot, windless days of August, 1532, decided the fate of the world for centuries to come. The Emperor’s navy was commanded by Andrea Doria, undoubtedly the greatest admiral of all time, whom Charles had made Prince of Malfi. The commander of the Venetian fleet was Vincenzo Capello, who was strictly bound by the secret instructions of the Signoria. But the names of the Turkish sea pashas I shall not mention. I was informed of their shameful conduct by Mustafa ben-Nakir, who was eyewitness to these events.
 

Like his sovereign, Doria was a cautious man who would never give battle unless he were certain of winning. Perhaps he considered the Turkish war galleys too dangerous, although he numbered among his vessels the terrible carrack, that marvel of the seas—a floating fortress so lofty that her serried cannon could fire over the War galleys that commonly preceded her. Doria, then, did not attack, but secretly boarded the Venetian flagship to beg the commander to unite his force with the rest. No Mussulman fleet in the world could withstand them then, he said; they could proceed unhindered over the Aegean to the

Dardanelles and destroy the fortresses there in the twinkling of an eye. Then Istanbul itself, its ancient walls denuded of defenders by the Hungarian campaign, would fall an easy prey to the Christian navies.

But it was by no means to the Signoria’s advantage that the Emperor should by this single stroke attain to world dominion, nor was it desirable to put a spoke in the Sultan’s wheel. As the only well- matched opponent to the Emperor, he kept the nations of the world in healthy equipoise. Capello, therefore, as an obedient son of the illustrious Republic, politely declined on the grounds of the secret instructions he had received, though no one knows what these were. Then, mindful of the bonds of friendship uniting Venice with the Porte, Capello informed the two Turkish sea pashas of Doria’s intentions. As a result these valiant men quite lost their heads, weighed anchor that night, and rowed back with might and main to the shelter of the Dardanelles, leaving the Greek coasts to their fate.

The return of the Moslem fleet in the utmost disarray, with its rowers half dead from exhaustion, threw Istanbul into a state of panic. The united navies of Christendom were expected to appear before the city at any moment. Wealthy Jews and Greeks began hurriedly packing their possessions for dispatch into Anatolia, and many of the highest officials discovered that their health required an immediate visit to the baths at Bursa. The garrisons of the Dardanelles fortresses were reinforced, and all available weapons supplied to them, while repairs were begun on the ruinous walls of Istanbul. The valiant caimacam was said to have sworn to die sword in hand at the gates of the Seraglio rather than capitulate, and this report, though intended as encouragement, gave the final impetus to the mad rush from the city.

So witless and cowardly had been the action of the Turkish fleet that not one of the Sultan’s warships dared show herself at sea for a long time afterward. It was left to a young Dalmatian pirate, a beardless boy who later won renown under the nickname of the Young Moor, to bring to Istanbul the comforting tidings that Doria had abandoned his plan because his forces, unaided by the Venetian fleet, were insufficient to ensure victory. Instead he was laying siege to the fortress of Coron in Morea. The Young Moor had come to Istanbul to sell Christian prisoners from one of Doria’s supply ships, captured by him off Coron. He had at his disposal one little felucca and a dozen boys of the same mettle as himself, his only effective armament being a rusty iron cannon. Yet he seemed not to understand that he had done anything heroic in attacking Doria’s whole fleet with one little vessel, though the Sultan’s sea pashas had fled without even engaging it.

The news he brought restored calm; the caimacam sent an express to the Sultan at Guns to report that all was well and that the campaign might continue, while the inhabitants of Istanbul hailed the Young Moor as a hero and pointed the finger of scorn at the sea pashas.

Mustafa ben-Nakir had returned to Istanbul with the demoralized fleet, and on entering my house found Giulia and Alberto packing up my most valuable possessions with the help of the terrified slaves, while I studied the maps for the best route to Egypt where I meant to beg the protection of the good eunuch Suleiman. He passed on to us the Young Moor’s reassuring news.

“Roll up your maps, my dear Michael,” he added. “Doria’s too old and cautious for such a gamble. Venice has saved us.”

Giulia’s eyes sparkled with indignation.

“Khurrem-sultana will never forgive the Grand Vizier for enticing the Ruler of the Faithful away into this foolish war and leaving us exposed to these perils. And if you had the least notion of how troublesome it will be to unpack all these pots and pans and ornaments and jars and mirrors and to put back all the curtains and carpets, you’d not laugh like that. I believe the Sultana is frightened enough to summon Khaireddin. Indeed he would have been sent for long ago had not the Grand Vizier been so eloquent in his praise; the Sultana is inclined to mistrust anything proposed by that ambitious schemer. But it’s to be hoped that after this ill-managed affair his days are numbered.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir answered mildly, “Let’s not kick a man when he has already fallen. If the army returns safe and sound from Hungary we can allow the Grand Vizier to continue trusting to his star of fortune, this time in Persia. Sooner or later he’ll break his own neck. The Sultan and Ibrahim are together. They encounter the same dangers and the same obstacles and no doubt share the same tent. The Sultana would be most unwise to hurl accusations at the Grand Vizier as soon as he returns, for half would fall on the Sultan, and not even an ordinary man can endure reproaches after an enterprise which in his heart he knows has failed.”

Giulia opened her mouth to retort; yet she had been listening attentively and allowed Mustafa ben-Nakir to proceed without interruption.

“Persia is a big country; its mountain passes are treacherous and Shah Tahmasp with his gilded cavalry is a terrible foe—especially if, as I’ve heard, he is receiving arms from Spain. Would it not be wisest to send the Grand Vizier to that savage country alone? The Sultan is not obliged to go with the army; for once he can remain in the Seraglio to govern his people and make good laws, and remain beyond the all-too-powerful influence of his friend. If only I might have the opportunity of speaking to the most radiant Sultana, even through a curtain, I could whisper much good advice into her no-doubt seductive ear. It would be no sin for the slaves of the harem to speak to one of my sacred brotherhood, so long as the Kislar-Aga gave his permission.”

He glanced at Giulia and then contemplated his polished nails, to give her time to reflect upon his proposal. But her flushed cheeks and averted eyes made it clear that she was only too anxious to convey Mustafa ben-Nakir’s request to the Sultana as quickly as might be. And when shortly afterward I beheld our graceful boat speeding over the water to Seraglio Point I spoke warningly to Mustafa ben-Nakir.

“You frighten me. Don’t count on me to join you in going behind my lord Ibrahim’s back. And remember, he is the grand master of your order.”

Mustafa ben-Nakir’s fine eyes flashed as he replied, “How shortsighted you are, Michael! We must play the Russian’s game so long as circumstances favor her. And I long to see for myself whether or not she is a witch. The Grand Vizier will be defenseless on his return, which is why we must persuade Khurrem that she would weaken her own influence by seeking his overthrow. No one could replace him, for he is the greatest statesman ever seen in the Ottoman Empire. And he will be master of the future if all goes as we hope. Without him the Sultan would be a reed bending to every wind. You don’t want that epileptic boy of his to succeed?”

“But Prince Mustafa, not Prince Selim, is the eldest!” I exclaimed in astonishment.

“If the Sultan were to die, none but Ibrahim would dare to send the mutes to Khurrem’s sons. So long as one of them is alive, a bowstring is all that can be predicted with certainty for Prince Mustafa.”

I remembered little Prince Jehangir with his sad, sad eyes, and I thought also of my dog. Sultana Khurrem had not treated me badly; on the contrary, she had saved my life and shown great kindness to my wife Giulia. I was filled with repugnance at the thought of what my loyalty to the Grand Vizier might one day entail. Mustafa ben- Nakir went on, “Grand Vizier Ibrahim will certainly not be defeated in Persia. Bagdad and Basrah will be in our hands before the outbreak of war, and our object this time is for Ibrahim to lead the army alone and garner the undivided honors of victory. The army must learn to look upon Ibrahim as their highest commander, and in the eyes of the people the crushing of the Shiite heresy will cover him with glory. The strongest will and the wisest head will govern Islam—with or without the Sultan. Only thus can Islam rule the whole world and the Prophet’s promise find fulfilment. Peace be with him.”

I looked at him with growing suspicion, never having seen him so carried away by his own words, and I could not but feel that for all his seeming candor he did not mean to reveal more than suited his own schemes.

“But,” I began doubtfully. “But—”

I found no more to say, and there we left it. In the meantime I had my safe house on the Bosphorus, and in revulsion from a troublous world I slipped into indifference, drifting passively with the tide in the knowledge that were I to muster all my strength and resolution I could not alter the preordained course of events.

The fright I had had reminded me that my fortune and possessions were but a loan of which a defeat or a whim of the Sultan might deprive me at any time. Fortune had come too easily for me to believe that it could last, and thus it was that I took to visiting the great mosque where, beneath the celestial dome and surrounded by the Emperor Justinian’s porphyry pillars, I would spend hours of quiet meditation.

Returning home one day I witnessed a curious incident. Stillness reigned in the garden and no slaves were to be seen, but when I stepped softly indoors so as not to disturb Giulia’s customary midday rest, I heard Alberto’s hoarse shout on the floor above, and Giulia’s voice quivering with rage. I hurried up the stairs and as I drew aside the curtain I heard a sharp slap and a scream of pain. I stepped in to see Giulia bending sideways in fear, with tears streaming down her face. She held both hands to her cheeks, which were red from the blow, while Alberto stood before her with feet apart and hand uplifted, like an angry master chastising his slave. I stood petrified and incredulous, never having seen Giulia so meek and helpless. But perceiving that Alberto had really dared to strike her, I was filled with blinding rage and looked about for a weapon with which to slay this insolent slave. At sight of me they both started, and Alberto’s face from being black with fury now turned ashy pale. I lifted a costly Chinese vase, meaning to bring it down on his head, but Giulia sprang between us, crying, “No, no, Michael! Don’t smash that vase—it was a present from Sultana Khurrem. And this is all my fault. Alberto is innocent and meant no harm. It was I who angered him.”