Altai: A Novel (20 page)

27.

On reaching Mimi Reis’s house, we went upstairs and sat on damask cushions on the floor. Two windows lit the room: One looked out onto the street and the other onto the garden.

Our guide’s accent was familiar to me; that of the inhabitants of Puglia, opposite Ragusa, which made me like him, not least because he was almost a compatriot of mine. We asked him to speak in Turkish so that everyone could understand.

Two maids came in, carrying a huge metal tray upon which lay half a roasted kid. They set it down on a stool, and together the two objects became a table. All we had to do was move our cushions around it and start eating.

“I’ve brought my sisters specially from Bari, to teach the maids to cook,” said the master of the house. He sang the praises of his native dishes, listing all the ingredients of dips and sauces. Ali asked if the animals had been butchered in the
halal
way, and it was only when he had received that reassurance that he and the Indians began to eat. Meanwhile, my attention was drawn to a Byzantine icon, right above a table beside the fireplace, surrounded by candles. Mimi Reis noticed my interest, and raised his right hand.

“
Sanda Necole
, patron saint of sailors.”

With these words, he pulled up his shirt to show us his chest and abdomen. Drawn just above his sternum was a bluish crucifix. Further down a group of women, and on his belly a sailing ship, manned by sailors carrying a trunk.

“You see?” he said, touching his ribs, “these are the three virgins of the miracle, and this one in the middle is my ancestor Benuzzo, who came back to Bari along with his companions, bearing the bones of the saint. They came to get them right here in Turkey, in Myra, on the coast opposite Cyprus.”

Ali couldn’t conceal a certain disgust at this spectacle, perhaps because of the nakedness on display, or perhaps because of the sharp smell emanating from the Italian’s chest. His expression didn’t escape our host, who suddenly looked contrite.

“Now I know that having your body carved is an insult to God’s work,” he hastened to say as he lowered his shirt. “But the Christians in my part of the world say it’s proof of faith, and also a protection, because if someone has these drawings on him it’s harder for the Turks to take him away; he’s like a rotten apple.”

“And what about you?” Ali asked curiously. “How did you become a Muslim?”

“The Turks took me anyway; they weren’t picky. I was eighteen, and my name was Domenico, Mimi to everybody. Since then I’ve been Mehmet.”

“So your faith was imposed upon you,” Ali said with regret.

The other protested: “Not at all. The pope is a tyrant, God is great and Mohammad is his Prophet. Saint Nicholas was born before him, so we can’t blame him for not being a Muslim. In my crew, when I was a corsair, the Albanians and Bosnians venerated him as much as I did: They called him
imam
, and if the sea swelled we prayed to him together to keep us afloat.”

The arrival of a tray of cakes interrupted his story. I was full by now, my head was heavy, and the warm air that day wasn’t helping me to stay awake. I missed a few lines of conversation, and perhaps I even closed my eyes, until the scent of coffee reached my nostrils.

“Of these people’s recipes, the only one we should imitate,” our host announced, bringing the cup to his lips, and when we had emptied ours, he asked us if we wanted anything else. The request was polite but superfluous, after the mountain of food that he had served us.

“I want to talk business,” said Ismail.

Mimi Reis stretched his arms out along the edges of the big pillow behind his back. He said, “It must be important business if it made you come back from Yemen. Or was it the Zaydi rebellion that dislodged you?”

Ismail smiled. “Rebellions don’t scare me; you should know that. And besides, what should a man who has reached my age be afraid of? On the other hand, what made you leave Constantinople?”

The Pugliese tightened every muscle in his face, assuming an expression that was the quintessence of regret. “Aaah, a lot has changed since you were there. There are a lot of things that you wouldn’t recognize. Some people worked their way up the ladder, and some people got stuck. And then there are the people who had to leave. Particularly the ones who didn’t have saints to help them to Paradise, as we say—
senza sande nan s’va en ’mbaravise
. We also say that
’u pèsce gruesse nan pote sci mmocch’a cudde peccenunne
—the big fish doesn’t fit in the little fish’s mouth. The little one has to go and swim somewhere else, you understand?”

“I understand,” said Ismail. “Anyway, I’ve come to suggest a transaction on behalf of a big fish. Yossef Nasi.”

Mimi Reis narrowed his eyes and scratched his chin. “And I’m listening to you because you’re you.”

“Are you still in touch with your Greek friends?”

The Pugliese nodded, his nose tilted upward as if sniffing every word. Ismail gestured to me to speak.

“At the end of the month,” I explained, “there’s a ship bound straight for Crete. It has to go off course and put in somewhere else, on the island of Naxos.”

The Pugliese pondered the request. “Whose ship is it?”

“It belongs to Solomon Ashkenazi.”

Mimi Reis pulled a disgusted face. “This is a
rott ’n cule
, a filthy trickster, servant of the Venetians. The Venetians are impostors. They tried to take Saint Nicholas’s bones, and when we got them back, rather than accepting the fact, they launched a crusade all the way here to tell us that we’d made a mistake and they’d found the real tomb.” He struck his chest and shook his head. “Infidel dogs.”

He stayed like that, with his hand on his beard, as if oppressed by that ancient injustice. Then he stirred himself, called for a bottle of
raki
and offered it to everybody, but of course Ismail and I were the only ones who accepted.

“This is no
sganuffa
,” said Mimi Reis, after sipping the spirits. “It’s no trifle. And people who engage in this kind of thing aren’t easily satisfied. It’s a big risk. It’ll take a lot of money.”

“How much?” I asked.

Again that contrite expression. “Let’s say at least six thousand aspers.”

“Fine,” I replied firmly. I had Nasi’s mandate to offer the necessary sum. “Half in advance and half once the business is concluded.”

“No,” Mimi insisted. “I need all the money up front.”

I exchanged a worried glance with Ismail, and he spoke up: “You used to trust me.”

The Pugliese sighed. “It isn’t a matter of trust, my friend. It’s that Yossef Nasi is more exposed than a sheet in the sun. They’re preparing for war, everyone knows that he’s up to his neck in it, and I don’t want any problems. And then you know that
’u uacejiedde pisce ’u llejiette e ’u cula iave mazzate
.” He stopped and translated for everyone: “The cock pisses the bed and the arse gets the kicking. I’m going to have to cover my arse . . .” He spread his arms. “Payment up front or I can’t help you.”

I looked at Ismail. The old man had no intention of replying. I wondered if he was silent out of kindness or whether he thought the objection was reasonable.

As we took our leave I was still filled with doubt. The Pugliese kissed us all and said he would send someone to get the money from Scutari. “Right then, Ismail,” he said before he left us. “You’re about to unleash a whirlwind, and troubles are going to come pouring in. It’s better for the old boats to stay in the harbor.”

The old man looked at him with laughing eyes. “Thanks for the advice, my friend. But you know me: I only stay in the harbor as long as I absolutely have to.
As-Salaam ’Alaykum
.”

“
Wa ’Alaykum As-Salaam. Statt’ bun.
Take care.”

28.

It’s on moonless nights that misdeeds are done, when only the stars sparkle on the black cloak of the sky and the pilots choose their routes with their noses in the air, their hands firmly on the tiller. It was on a moonless night that Mimi Reis’s trap was sprung.

The merchant ship bound for Candia was passing calmly through the Cyclades when an alarm was raised on board. The black shadow of a sail had suddenly appeared from behind the island of Delos, on a collision course with the Cretan vessel. The bell on deck rang out, torches were waved, but the ghost ship pressed on until it struck the side of the merchantman, level with the prow, making it list to the left and spin on its own axis. Then it was clear to everyone that a major collision was unavoidable. The oarsmen were recalled to their benches, and the captain turned the ship’s tail and fled with sails unfurled.

The pirates’ slender galley, lighter and faster, pursued its quarry to Naxos. It was only at dawn, in view of the harbor, that it vanished again.

As Ashkenazi’s boat moored it was welcomed by the island’s militia and the keeper of the harbor, who in the name of the Duke of Naxos, that is to say Don Yossef Nasi, put the ship under the protection and custody of his master.

The captain’s protests were futile. The militiamen climbed on board and inspected the ship and its crew. Bernardo Traverso was missing from the lineup. After a long search, the Genoese was found in the hold, his breeches round his ankles, trying to stuff some rolls of paper into his rear orifice. Caught
in flagrante
, he commended his soul to the Holy Virgin and prayed on his knees to be spared. The keeper of the port took charge of the precious rolls of paper, but not before he had cleaned them of all traces of Genoese jitters. At last, along with a detailed report, he entrusted them to a messenger and sent them to Constantinople. A few days later, the letters of Marcantonio Barbaro, addressed to the Doge of Venice and the Council of Ten, were in the hands of Yossef Nasi.

I imagined that Nasi would send the proof of Ashkenazi’s betrayal to the Sultan in person. He didn’t, in fact. He knew he held the winning cards, but he also knew how to play them. He went not to the Sultan but instead to the Grand Vizier. He brought Sokollu proof of his personal secretary’s betrayal, having first taken the precaution of making the contents of the documents public. Thus he held Sokollu to his responsibilities, and linked him to his own conniving. I couldn’t say if it was a flash of genius or a premeditated move, but it certainly put the Grand Vizier in great difficulty.

The events of the following week marked the victory of Nasi and the decisive step toward war. Sokollu couldn’t keep Ashkenazi out of prison and had to use all his influence to save the Venetian doctor from the gallows. By so doing, he reinforced suspicions that he too had an agreement with La Serenissima. Selim was obliged to demonstrate his disapproval of that same Grand Vizier, and the advocates of war within the Divan were given a free hand to proceed with military operations against Cyprus.

Throughout this time, Nasi appeared strangely calm. Only his eyes gave away his excitement, his awareness that his plan was coming to fruition, one step at a time.

So it was that one day in early summer we all found ourselves in the big Roman hippodrome, which the Turks called Atmeydani, watching the Ottoman war machine get moving, to the sound of horns and drums.

29.

The Sipahi noblemen passed in serried ranks, their horses’ steps perfectly synchronized, their lances pointed toward the sky, a forest of glittering pines. On the arm of every horseman was a round shield, and carved quivers and short, curved bows hung from their saddles. The Sultan’s six cavalry divisions reminded everyone that the Turks had conquered their empire on horseback. They had galloped down from the steppes of Asia, passing through the Middle East with the violence of barbarians. The Sipahi represented the true heart of Ottoman power.

But they were not the backbone of the army.

The march of the janissaries was a triumph of red and green; the pennants and standards of the regiments fluttered in the morning breeze; the halberds and arquebuses shone in the sun, sabers and hatchets clattered in their belts.

Instead of weapons, one squadron carried big drums, pipes, trumpets, bells and cymbals. The sounds they made enfolded the soldiers and spurred them on, like a magic shield and an invisible force, capable of repelling projectiles, laying enemy forces low and reducing Cypriot fortresses to rubble.

A marvelous spectacle. Nonetheless, I recalled what Ismail had said to me during the crossing to Bandirma. The means change the end. How would the new kingdom of Cyprus resist that vast military apparatus? I thought of the army of the twelve tribes of Israel, the Ark of the Covenant, the seven ram’s horns that had brought down the walls of Jericho. More than two thousand years later, Yossef Nasi was entrusting the conquest of the Promised Land to the Turkish imperial army, not one of whose soldiers was Jewish.

My people’s only contribution to this war was the uniforms of the janissaries, sewn by the Sephardim of Salonika. The men who wore them were Slavs, Albanians, Bosnians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Hungarians. The Turks had torn them from their families as children and brought them to the imperial barracks to receive a training worthy of the ancient Spartans. They had converted to Islam, under the iron control of the
bektashi,
the spiritual instructors who were now going with them into battle. Forced to remain celibate, they formed a solid fraternity, like an order of knights devoted to a single father: the Sultan. They were his children and his slaves. For him alone they passed along to the rhythm of the music.

Selim-sani, Sovereign of the House of Osman, Sultan of Sultans, Khan of khans, Caliph of the faithful and successor of the Prophet. Guardian of the holy cities of Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, Caesar of the Roman Empire, Padisha of the three cities of Istanbul, Edirne and Bursa, and of the cities of Damascus and Cairo.

That was how the pages had announced Selim’s arrival, following the titles owed to him with a list of his possessions, from Abyssinia to Hungary, from Mesopotamia to Algiers.

How that pompous introduction clashed with his most famous nickname—Sarbosh, the Drunk—and the gossip about his dissolute habits. The subjects who acclaimed him from the benches of the hippodrome knew very well that Sultan Selim, the shadow of God on earth, had obtained those titles only thanks to the death of his brothers, Mustafa and Bayezid, eliminated during his father’s reign after years of plotting and lies.

With a gesture that looked like a blessing, Selim rose to his feet and saluted the people and the troops. Thousands of heads bowed and eyes stared up at him from below, because the Sultan’s face was a rare thing to see. I strained to see, too, wanting to know whether he was really repellent, swollen and light-headed with spirits, as some of the dispatches I had read in Venice said he was. But I was too far away, and the Great Turk immediately went and sat in the shade, on the covered balcony of the great palace of Ibrahim Pasha, which looked out over the ancient Byzantine arena.

The other windows of the building, some of them covered with grilles and shutters, were reserved for members of the imperial family. On either side of the façade, big wooden triple-tiered galleries rose. On one of these sat Yossef Nasi, and David Gomez beside him, a short distance from the dignitaries and the Grand Vizier. The European ambassadors were on the other side. I recognized the Polish voivode, seated beside the Seigneur de Grantrie.

I had taken my place with Donna Reyna and her entourage in a covered stand right in front of the Sultan’s balcony. That put me a few feet away from Dana, who accompanied her mistress, although my attempts to meet her eye had been unsuccessful.

“There’s our Don Yossef enjoying his triumph,” said Donna Reyna, by my side. “He has managed to make everyone submit, and exploited the Sultan’s thirst.”

I didn’t catch the phrase then, and went on watching the parade. Passing below the obelisk of Thutmosis at that moment were the Azabs, the ill-defined troop of irregular infantrymen and those responsible for general field duties, while the higher imperial statesmen paid their respects to the Sultan and received the greetings of the Grand Vizier. In the front rank of senior officials I recognized Kapudan Pasha Muezzinzade Ali, the Great Admiral of the fleet, and Lala Mustafa Pasha, commander-in-chief of the army.

“And here are the Sultan’s champions, who will have to bring about his victory, so that he can show himself worthy to be his father’s son.” Donna Reyna fluttered a crimson fan in front of her face. “But Suleyman would have marched at the head of his soldiers, like a true warrior. Selim prefers to toast their success from the cellar doorway.”

I couldn’t help glancing around, worried that someone might hear her. I tried to meet Dana’s eyes again, but Donna Reyna interposed herself between us, and I had a sense that she did so quite deliberately. Lest I seem rude, I resigned myself to replying. “You don’t seem to have much confidence in the success of this enterprise, Donna Reyna.”

Another red flutter. “On the contrary, Signor Cardoso, I think it will be a real triumph. How could it be otherwise? On one side is Selim, displaying all the power of the Ottoman Empire, and on the other is an undefended island, far away from any possible ally.” She pointed with her fan. “Look at Don Yossef. Look at him carefully, because he is the true author of all of this. And most importantly, he’s the one who’s paying the bill.”

I turned toward her; she was pleased to have attracted my attention.

“The Nasis are bankers, and the only art to which they have ever devoted themselves is finance,” she said. “We pay for the wars of the sovereigns. This time, instead of a useful percentage, it would seem that we are going to receive a crown.”

Nasi wasn’t merely dedicating himself to the most powerful army in the world—he was financing it. Perhaps that was his hope: to move his credit to a more resonant coin than gold and silver. To buy the freedom of the future kingdom. It wouldn’t be the Israelites conquering Jericho, but at least a Jew’s money would make it possible. Watching that great destroying machine pass by, I wondered if it would be enough.

“So it seems that I am about to be a queen,” Reyna went on. “Melancholy and alone.”

“You seem to be neither of those things, my lady,” I lied.

“You couldn’t possibly understand. All women who are forced to live in the shadow of a great man have something in common: hushing up his weaknesses, weaving tapestries in the empty silence of a palace. I’m sure the Sultan’s consort would agree with me.”

“And I’m sure that many women would like to be in your place.”

Rather than turning toward me, she let her eye fall on Dana. “And yet sometimes a servant has more freedom than a queen.”

She said nothing more, but that was enough to spark my suspicion, and suspicion, in a man of my profession, is as vast as a mine and more inflammable than pitch. Those words, addressed to me as she referred with her eyes to Dana, were a precise allusion. I remembered Dana’s words after the first night that I had spent with her. She had told me repeatedly not to tell anyone what had happened between us.

I was a thousand times more harmless, for you, with a dagger in my hand.

I had to discover whether Reyna knew, or even merely imagined, that her chambermaid was spending almost every night in my room.

The cheers of the crowd drowned out my thoughts. A long line of cannon, pulled by oxen and escorted by companies of artillerymen, had entered the hippodrome. There were cannon of every size, caliber and style, embellished with a thousand ornaments, with mouths shaped like the jaws of lions and wolves. Culverins, bombards, mortars, serpentines, siege cannons and half-cannons. A black snake whose tail I still couldn’t see even when the head had traveled halfway around the arena.

Leading the monster was a piece of artillery that would never see the coast of Cyprus, but which the Ottomans venerated like a talisman. It was the huge bombard of the Hungarian engineer Orban, used during the siege of Constantinople. I counted thirty pairs of oxen forced to pull it, and judged that it was at least fifteen feet long. In spite of its size, I suspected that during the siege it had been more of a hindrance than a help. You couldn’t fire it more than twice a day, and that had allowed the Byzantines to rebuild during the night what the cannonballs had destroyed during the day. And yet, more than a century later, that basilisk more than anything else bore witness to the superiority of the Turks over the European fortresses.

Now the guilds of armorers, foundry men and other war-related trades were preparing to close the parade. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Donna Reyna handing a note to Dana and whispering something in her ear. Dana nodded a few times, and then slipped away.

I saw her emerging among the crowd, and a few moments later I excused myself too, to go and join her outside the hippodrome.

When I found her, she was walking quickly along the Imperial Road. I stepped forward and gestured to her to follow me into an alleyway, because in Constantinople it isn’t thought seemly for a man and a woman to stop in the street and talk.

The burned-out ruins of an old wooden house offered us shelter from the eyes of passers-by.

“What’s going on?” she asked me impatiently.

“I’m worried that Donna Reyna knows about us.”

She laughed, not troubled in the slightest by that possibility. A rat-squeak from a pile of rubbish echoed her laughter. “If she knew, she would have dismissed me already.”

I wasn’t satisfied. “Have you said or done anything that might have alerted her? Think very hard.”

“Certainly not. Calm down.” She stroked my cheek with her hand. “Now let me go, I’m in a hurry.”

“What do you have to do that’s so urgent?”

She tried to push past me, but I stood in her way. “Donna Reyna’s business.”

“Business!” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. “What kind of business?”

“None of yours, Manuel. Let me go.”

I pushed her away so that I could stare into her eyes. “You know what my job is at Palazzo Belvedere. Don Yossef has chosen me to collect rumors and clues. There is no business within the Nasi family that is not my business too.”

She gave me a glance that I couldn’t interpret. It might have expressed annoyance, surprise or disappointment. A drop of sweat ran down her forehead from under her veil.

“Has the frenzy of battle gone to your head, Manuel? Perhaps seeing all those janissaries in a row, ready to crush the enemy, has made you want to do the same?” And with those words she pushed me aside and returned to the street.

Panting, I waited for my breathing to slow. The air was hot and smelled of ashes and carrion. With no particular haste, I stepped into the Imperial Road, recognized her yellow kerchief and started following her toward Santa Sofia. A pack of unhealthy-looking dogs decided to do the same to me. I hoped their barking wouldn’t make Dana turn round, before a few lobbed stones persuaded them to shut up and go somewhere else.

Past the ancient church, now turned into a mosque, was the Augustus Gate, the chief entrance to the walls of the Seraglio. I saw Dana dart inside and decided to follow her. No particular formalities were required to enter the first courtyard. As soon as I was inside, I slowed my pace and kept my distance, concerned that I might be noticed. Unlike the first time I had been here, there wasn’t much activity along the avenue, but I certainly couldn’t hide myself behind a cypress tree, nor could I go another way: This was the only possible route. On the other hand, for the same reason, it wasn’t hard for me to keep my eye on my quarry, even from a distance. Dana stopped at the second gate, chatted with the guards and was allowed in shortly afterward.

I experienced a moment of indecision. My eye fell on the fountain to the right of the entrance, where the hangman is said to wash his hands and his sword once his work is done.

Taking care not be too hasty, I turned around and went back where I had come from, hoping that no one had noticed my strange behavior. I had come in, I had walked to the middle of the courtyard, and now I was turning on my heel, all for no clear reason. I remembered the stories I had heard in Galata, of merchants beaten on the spot, just for having raised their voices or ridden their horses too quickly.

Once outside, I thought about what I had seen. I tried to remember which buildings opened onto the second courtyard. I recalled the kitchens, the stables, the Sultan’s harem, the Council Chamber and the rooms leading off it for the private audiences of the various viziers.

I thought that Donna Reyna’s message must be meant for a member of the Divan. And it couldn’t have been an innocent one. Otherwise, why would Dana have been so reticent? Couldn’t she have told me quite straightforwardly what was going on at the Seraglio?

I had just blocked one dangerous correspondence, and already another was requiring my attention. I felt the blood quickening under my skin, and then I turned into the street that ran down to the Golden Horn and allowed myself to be filled by the hunting instinct.