Veritas (Atto Melani) (18 page)

“And they stank too!” my wife said wearily. “In the Ottoman Empire no one undresses for bed, and because of the cold they’re wearing the same furs they’ve been
travelling in for months. Remember that for the Turks there’s nothing more elegant than a fur coat and so they think they’re cutting a fine figure dressed like this.”

In Constantinople, added Cloridia, there’s nothing they fear so much as the cold and so they do all they can to protect themselves from it even when for us Europeans the problem is to
withstand the heat. Even in the warm rooms of the Savoy Palace the Ottomans remained wrapped up in their stinking furs and on the lookout for the slightest draught from windows and doors, which
they then wanted to stop up with pieces of waxed paper. And so, while the Agha was being received with all honours by Prince Eugene, the Ottomans were bustling to and fro all over the place, making
the palace servants complain; and the two groups, like hammer and tongs, had driven poor Cloridia mad, she being the only linguistic intermediary.

The last straw had come when some Armenians in the retinue had decided to light a
tandur
to sit around, with the risk of starting a fire or seriously damaging the Most Serene
Prince’s furnishings.

“A
tandur
?”

“A little stove full of embers and burning coal which you put under a table covered with woollen drapes that hang down to the ground. They all pull the cover over themselves, bury their
hands and arms under it, and keep their bodies at a temperature that we would consider feverish. Of course this custom leads to a great many horrible accidents. And they insisted on lighting one in
the palace, repeating that they’re
muzafir
and so on.”

That was not the end of it, continued Cloridia. When the Great Court Marshal called to greet the Agha’s train, some of the Turks, wanting to show that they were perfectly familiar with the
customs of us Giaours, did nothing but drink from the bottle, burping all the while, and sprawled all over the divans, believing that this was what we consider elegant behaviour. But when the Great
Marshal, during the visit, spat into a spittoon on the carpet, the Ottomans gestured wildly and turned up their eyes to show how amazed they were at such barbarous conduct.

“However,” I said, in an attempt to sweeten her temper, “this idea that guests are sent by God does honour to the Infidels.”

“It’s all show, my dear: if you call on one of them and then, when you leave, fail to pay twenty times the value of what you’ve consumed, your host will wait for you to step
outside, losing the sacred title of
muzafir
, and stone you,” she concluded.

“My poor wife,” I sympathised, embracing her.

“And I haven’t yet told you what happened when they heard my mother was Turkish: they pulled out a tambourine, a drum and a shepherd’s whistle, and beat time faster and faster,
wanting me to dance that dance of theirs with wooden spoons, all a twisting of hips and bellies, with nothing graceful about it that I can see, while what’s indecent is all too clear,”
added Cloridia, still overcome by disgust.

“I hope at least they didn’t show you any disrespect.”

“Don’t worry, despite all the wine I’d supplied them with, they haven’t forgotten what the Sultan will do to anyone who molests a woman. And in any case that dervish of
theirs, Ciezeber, was ready to remind them of it,” smiled Cloridia, noticing a flicker of fear in my eyes.

“I saw him in the procession. But what’s he doing in the Agha’s retinue?”

“He’s his imam, his priest. I just wonder why he isn’t Turkish.”

“I’ve read that he’s Indian.”

“So they say. At any rate he’s not like the others, he behaves most worthily.”

I asked her what the palace looked like inside, if she had attended the official talks, or if she had at least bumped into Prince Eugene. She told me that, as soon as he set foot inside the
palace of the Most Serene Prince, the Agha was led by the master of the palace to the great staircase, and then upstairs. Here, surrounded by a great crowd of noblemen, people of rank and imperial
functionaries, the Ottoman ambassador was received by two officials of the War Chancellery, who led him through the famous great hall, decorated throughout in frescoes, and then through the
antechamber to the audience chamber. The Agha must have been greatly impressed by the great gathering of people, remarked Cloridia, as well as by the abundance of red velvets with ornamental gold
writing that covered the walls and the armchairs. The spectacle of the great hall, of the luxurious wall-hangings and the eager bystanders reached its climax when the door of the audience hall was
finally thrown open to reveal the severe face of His Imperial Eminence the President of the Aulic Council of War, His Highness the Most Serene Prince Eugene of Savoy.

Eugene was dazzling in his gold-embroidered garments, his hat decorated with a cockade studded with diamonds of incalculable value, and also displaying the Golden Fleece and his sword. He sat
awaiting the Agha in an armchair underneath a baldachin of red velvet, flanked by Count Herberstein, Vice-President of the Aulic Council of War and a secret referendary and surrounded by numerous
generals. The room had now filled with the great throng of noblemen, courtiers and people of note, all craning their necks to catch every detail of the conference.

“Eugene is far from good-looking,” added Cloridia. “He doesn’t have fine facial features, his body is too lean, but on the whole he inspired respect and
deference.”

As soon as he arrived before the Most Serene Prince, the Agha saluted in the Turkish manner, touching his turban three times, and then sat down on an armchair that had at once been placed
opposite that of his host. The first thing the Ottoman did was to present his credentials. The Prince accepted them and immediately passed them to the secret referendary. After which a conversation
was held, but neither of them had to make any concessions: the Agha expressed himself in Turkish, Eugene in Italian, which was not only the official court language but also the idiom of his family,
he being a Savoy. Their words were made mutually intelligible by the Caesarean interpreter and the interpreter of the Sublime Porte; the former translated, the latter assured the Agha of the
correctness of the translation. Only at the outset, Cloridia said, did the Agha formulate a sentence in Latin in honour of the Holy Roman Empire: “
Soli soli soli ad pomum venimus
aureum!”
, which is to say, “We have come to the Golden Apple all alone.” He pronounced it carefully, reading from a document. This was interpreted not only literally –
the Agha had indeed come with a retinue of just twenty people or so – but above all as a declaration of honest and peaceful intent. The Turk had come to Vienna, in short, with no ulterior
motive. The paper from which the Agha had read was then personally delivered into the hands of the Most Serene Prince.

During the interview, furthermore, Eugene was seen to play with a strange metal object about two inches across, which he passed incessantly from one hand to the other. At the end, after the
ritual farewells, the Agha stood up, turned round and immediately headed towards the door. Only then did Eugene, who had remained seated the whole time, stand up, remove his hat by way of
salutation and then, taking care to turn his back on the Agha to show his superiority, look towards his generals. The Turk was led away by the same officers of the city guard who had conducted him
thither. Reseated in his carriage between two lines of onlookers, he was taken back to his lodgings, but only to satisfy the curiosity of the bystanders, since the Agha and his retinue in fact
returned that very evening to the palace of the Most Serene Prince, where they were going to stay for three days, to enjoy the most lavish and splendid treatment that the duty of hospitality
imposed.

“So the Turks are staying for three days as Eugene’s guests.”

“That’s what the Prince has decided, to pay them greater honour.”

“And on Monday they’ll be returning to their lodgings, at the inn of the Golden Lamb,” I deduced.

“Haven’t you heard the latest? The embassy isn’t putting up at the Golden Lamb, as the Turkish delegations have done for a hundred years now.”

“Really?” I said in surprise.

“It’s still on the Leopoldine Island, in the Jewish quarter, but at the home of Widow Leixenring, which has eleven rooms, a good kitchen and a stable with a barn.”

“A private house? But why?”

“It’s a mystery. All I know is that the rent is paid, as always, by the imperial chamber. At the Golden Lamb they’re offended, particularly because there was room for them
there. And all the onlookers who were waiting for the procession outside the inn were left looking silly. The strangest thing is that Widow Leixenring’s small palace is guarded like a
fortress: they told me you can’t get a peek at the windows even from a distance.”

“So it’s true that there’s something serious behind this embassy. Have they come out and declared their reason for coming here?” I said, beginning to worry that we might
have come all the way to Vienna to escape from Roman poverty, but at the risk of falling victims to a new Turkish siege.

With the lightning swiftness of fear, I was already seeing myself flayed alive, my wife deported (lucky her, speaking the language of those Infidels) and my son brought up in the barracks of
Constantinople to become a janissary – or, worse, made a eunuch for the Sultan’s harem. Meanwhile Cloridia had moved to the door that communicated with the next room. She was discreetly
eavesdropping on the dialogue taking place at that moment between our little boy and Ollendorf:

“Gott behüte Ewer Gnaden.” “Goodbye Most Illustrious Sir,” the pupil was reciting courteously. Cloridia smiled tenderly on hearing his high-pitched voice.

“People are saying that this is a different embassy from the previous ones,” she then confirmed, returning to me as her smile faded. “Do you want to know how many people there
were on previous official Turkish visits to Vienna? As many as 400. The last time they came was 11 years ago, in 1700, and they had 450 horses, 180 camels and 120 mules. And now,” she added,
“arriving like this in a great hurry, almost without warning, with very few followers and a journey in the depths of winter . . .”

“So does anyone know why they’ve come?” I asked, feverish with anxiety.

“Certainly they know. Officially, to confirm the peace treaty of Karlowitz. And that’s what the Agha discussed with Eugene in front of everyone.”

“The treaty signed with the Emperor twelve years ago, when the last war with the Ottomans ended?”

“Exactly.”

“And was there any need to send such an urgent embassy from Constantinople to confirm a treaty that had already been signed? They haven’t made any claims or announced any hostile
intentions towards the Empire?”

“On the contrary. The Ottomans have got many other matters on their minds right now: they’re engaged against the Czar.”

“The whole thing makes no sense. Do you think they’ve come for some other reason?”

Cloridia looked at me, returning the question with her eyes.

“I’ve asked each and every one of those drunkards in the Agha’s retinue,” she said then, “but do you know what they answer?
Soli soli soli ad pomum venimus
aureum!
And then they laugh and they drink, so as not to say anything else. They ape their master without even understanding what they’re saying.”

“And the palace staff? Maybe they’ve picked up something from the private talks between Eugene and the Agha.”

“Ah, as for that, there’s been no private talk!”

“What?”

“You heard me. Eugene and the Agha have never gone off in private; they have always talked exclusively in front of an audience.”

“And so they’ve really never talked of anything except the old treaty of Karlowitz.”

“Truly inexplicable, don’t you think?” she answered disconsolately. “Just think,” she added, lowering her voice, “that even in the Prince’s diary,
there’s nothing about this embassy except the sheet of paper the Agha gave him. And on the sheet all that’s written is that sentence: ‘
Soli soli soli ad pomum venimus
aureum
,’ simply that the Turks have come to Vienna all by themselves.”

“This is all absurd,” I commented.

“Maybe this sentence conceals something we don’t know,” conjectured my wife. “They’ve explained to me that the
pomum aureum
, or the Golden Apple, is the
name the Turks give to Vienna.”

“Yes, I know; Simonis told me this just today,” I confirmed, summarising for her what I had learned from my assistant about the history of the Place with No Name, about Maximilian II
and Suleiman.

“Incredible. But where does the name Golden Apple come from?”

“Ah, I’ve no idea.”

“Maybe it’s the name that holds the key to understand the sentence,” hazarded Cloridia.

Things clearly did not add up. It had been feared that the Ottomans might arrive in arms, or at any rate bringing something terrible with them. Instead, publicly emphasising that they had come
all by themselves, they wanted to reassure the imperial forces as to the honesty of their intentions. But this still did not explain why they had come to Vienna in such urgent haste. And there was
something else that jarred with their avowed peaceful purposes – the way they had referred to the Caesarean city, using the hardly reassuring name of “Golden Apple”. The
description underlined the fact that Vienna was still a target of conquest for the Ottoman Sublime Porte. It was no accident that Prince Eugene was granting them the extraordinary honour of hosting
them for three days in his palace.

“And how do you know what’s in your master’s personal diary?” I asked with my eyes bulging, suddenly thinking of Cloridia’s words.

“That’s obvious: I was told by his personal manservant’s wife, the one I promised to help give birth for free.”

My wife, although she could not practise as a midwife, a profession which required a regular licence (like everything else here), never stopped helping women who were pregnant, in childbed or in
puerperium. Her help was gratefully received, since the best obstetricians in the city, those on the same level as Cloridia, cost a fortune.