Shadow of God (14 page)

Then Philippe met their eyes, all fixed upon him. No, not upon him, but upon his hand. For there in his right hand was the handle and guard of his sword. There was smoke coming from the short stub that remained of the blade. The rest of the sword lay in ashes at his feet. Its very substance and being were nothing but a few blackened cinders of steel on the scorched deck where lay the bodies of nine of his brave knights. Some of the molten steel still glowed orange, branding a blackened scar on the wooden deck.

Philippe’s hand burned, the pain radiating upwards into his shoulder. He tried to release the hot sword handle, but his fist would not open. The muscles of his forearm were frozen in spasm so that the handle of his destroyed sword remained tight in his involuntary grasp.

In that instant, a legend was born. Though Philippe was never to hear of it directly, the men believed that this was a prophesy from God. It was a sign that Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam had been sent by the Almighty to lead the Knights Hospitaller of the Order of St. John to victory over the Muslims. The new Grand Master had been baptized in fire from heaven. They had all seen it, and nobody could deny it.

Philippe returned to his cabin on the
Sancta Maria.
He settled down on his bed, trying to find a comfortable place for his burned hand, but failed to do so. It still throbbed, though the surgeon had assured him that he would fully recover from the burns. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. As his body relaxed, he realized with some surprise that the events of the past few days had so consumed his attention, that this was the first time since leaving Paris that his mind had not been at least partially preoccupied with thoughts of Hélène. As he fell into the first really deep sleep in days, sleep protected by the presence of his ship and his knights, he saw her face again, looking at him as he left her apartment in Paris for the very last time.

The Topkapi Palace, Istanbul
September, 1521

“Take this letter at once, and see it delivered directly into the hands of the Ambassador, himself. Release it to no one else. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Majesty.” The Janissary rose from his knees and took the letter from Suleiman. He placed it securely in a leather bag at his waist, and backed through the door. There he retrieved his sword and made for the exits from the Palace.

Ibrahim was surprised to hear the Sultan have a conversation with a person so far beneath him as a Janissary. Normally, there was almost complete silence in Suleiman’s presence, except for his closest advisors or his Viziers. A centuries-old Ottoman tradition held that in the inner recesses of the Sultan’s Palace, silence must be observed. The world of the Sultan would be free from the cacophony of random noise generated in the streets of the Empire. To ensure this, Suleiman had adopted a language of hand signals called Ixarette. He learned this from two mute gardeners in his inner court. The sign language obviated the need for any conversation with his servants, and served to accentuate the magnitude of the separation between the Sultan and his servants. As time went on, Suleiman became more dependent upon Ixarette, and verbal conversations with anyone other than his close advisers were rare.

Suleiman sat on the
divan,
drinking fruit nectar from his favorite jade goblet. Generations of Ottoman Sultans had drunk
only from vessels made of jade, because the court scientists believed that most poisons would discolor the delicate stone. Suleiman swirled the liquid and cursorily examined the walls of the goblet. It remained a rich translucent green.

“Well, Ibrahim? What think you of our letter?”

Ibrahim smiled and nodded. He rose from the
divan
and began to pace. Suleiman allowed Ibrahim this annoying habit, for he knew it settled the man and helped him see through the various possibilities of a problem.

Ibrahim thought for a moment and said, “This letter must be sent. The
Qur’an
tells us that we must warn our enemy and give him an opportunity to surrender to us. Yes, the letter is necessary.”

Suleiman nodded his head slowly. “But, it will have no effect. The knights will never surrender their fortress without a battle. But, I’ve done everything the
Qur’an
requires of me.”

The two men were in the Sultan’s Privy Chamber, now made up for the daytime as an audience room.

“Do you worry for the safety of the young soldier who carries the letter, my Lord?”

“Yes. You never can tell what the Infidel will do when bad news arrives. Do you remember what happened to my envoy to Hungary? All he did was bring news of my accession as Sultan.”

“Yes, I do. Poor man, he was rewarded for his troubles by having his nose and his ears cut off! Only by the grace of Allah—and our court physicians—did he survive at all. But, I think, my Lord, that the Grand Master will know your meaning quite well. This ‘Letter of Victory’ cannot be misconstrued as anything but a threat. Though I, myself, am as yet undecided as to the wisdom of the venture.”

“Why? Have we not covered ourselves with glory since we took the White City of Belgrade? Did our armies not show the world that we cannot be stopped? Have they not seen Suleiman, the warrior, equal to their wildest comparisons with Selim? So, now, why not Rhodes?”

“I fully agree that the Infidel knights need to be driven from the island once and forever. They have preyed upon our trade and shipping for far too long.”

“Too long? They have been pirates upon our Mediterranean and Aegean routes for two hundred years!”

“Forgive me, Majesty, perhaps I spoke too mildly. Yes, they have been pirates, or
corsairs
as their new Grand Master would put it, upon our trade routes for two hundred years. Why, I have heard that sea called the ‘Lake of the Knights of St. John.’ And we’ve lost many millions in treasure and trade to their war galleys. Not to mention the enslavement of our people. Yes, we must make it an Ottoman Lake once again.”

“It’s fully time that they were stopped,” Suleiman interrupted. His father, Selim, had never been happy with the knights’ location between Istanbul and Egypt, and had been preparing to attack them when he died. “My war with Hungary was an extension of my father’s war, and I needed it to take command of my armies.
Really
take command. If it were not for Belgrade, I would still not know how much I could depend upon the loyalty of the young troops. You think it was a whim that I took the pay of a Janissary for myself?”

“No, my Lord, I do not.” Ibrahim recalled the day in detail. It was a wonderful display of the Sultan’s cunning and perception.

Piri Pasha had wanted Suleiman to be seen as the true leader of the Janissaries. He had told the Sultan, “These young men are restless, Majesty. They long for battle. They live for nothing else. They have no families, no wives. Their only friends are each other. They live in camps, and train day in and day out to fight and to kill. And when there is no war, there is no extra gold. No reward. No glory. It’s bad for them in the city, where they chew the bitter roots of drill and discipline and eat indoors at the kitchens instead of outdoors, as in the war camps. You must lead them. They must see
you
as their
Seraskier,
their Commander-in-Chief!”

The next morning, the
yeni cheri
were drummed to assembly. They were shocked to see the Sultan not upon his horse, but walking on foot among them. This was unheard of. They drew to attention, and squared their ranks in preparation for the morning march and drill. Usually, on these paydays, the Janissaries would rush wildly at the Paymaster, forgetting all discipline. But now, the
Sultan was among them. There would be no chaos. The officers and men were at rigid attention. The ranks were arrow straight. Although there were more than five thousand Janissaries gathered there in the huge Second Court of the Palace, not a sound was heard. Not a man spoke, nor moved. In the stillness, even a whisper would have been heard by everyone.

Suleiman walked in front of his troops. He wore his battle dress instead of the gold brocade and silks in which he usually appeared in public. His boots and hat resembled those of the Janissaries. He moved to the head of their columns, and then lined up with his men. Together, they all waited for the Paymaster’s distribution. The Sultan was going to be paid as a non-commissioned officer in the Janissary Guard!

Bali Agha,
Seraskier
of the Janissaries, stood to the side and smoothed the long black mustache that hung below his jowls. He nodded to Ibrahim, who was waiting off behind the troops, mounted on his restless black stallion. The only sound now was the stamping of his horse’s hooves and the occasional snort of breath from its flared nostrils.

Suleiman nodded to the Paymaster as he received a handful of silver
aspers
, and slipped them into his leather pouch. Ibrahim knew that these young men would now willingly die for their master. The Sultan was not a Sipahi, nor a galley-man. He was a Janissary! He was one of them. A Janissary could walk past the Sipahi horsemen now with pride, for the Sultan himself would go to war with them.

Almost immediately after ascending to the throne, Suleiman had led his troops to Belgrade. After three months, the city had fallen to Suleiman’s army. The twenty-five-year-old Sultan had his first great victory, and the kings of Europe began to tremble as the news reached them of the might and bravery of the armies of this Son of Selim. In less than six months, the Sultan had returned with his armies to Istanbul, weighed down with treasure and slaves. All of Christianity waited in terror to see where his armies would turn next.

“Yes, Majesty,” said Ibrahim. “That was a day, indeed!”

Suleiman smiled at his friend. “Indeed.”

A servant entered the room and knelt at the doorway. He touched his head to the floor. Then, without rising, he began to converse with the Sultan using the hand signals.

Though Ibrahim was well versed in the Sultan’s hand signs, he rarely used them in Suleiman’s presence. He understood that the servant was announcing the Steward of the
Hazine,
the Treasury. Suleiman signaled for the Steward to be admitted to the room. The servant backed away, and the Steward entered. The old man was attired in a rich caftan of silk brocade and a white turban adorned with crimson herons’ feathers. He knelt with great difficulty on the carpet before the Sultan, and pressed his head to the floor. Suleiman bid the Steward to rise, and extended his arm. The old man touched his forehead to the Sultan’s sleeve and rose from his kneeling position. Ibrahim could see the pain in the man’s eyes as his arthritic knees struggled with the ceremony of greeting the Sultan.

“Majesty,” he began, “if it pleases you, I should like to take you and the Captain of the Inner House on a tour of the Royal
Hazine.”
The man kept his eyes bowed and waited for a response.

Suleiman inclined his head toward Ibrahim, who smiled and nodded. The Sultan turned back to the Steward and said, “Very well. Let us see what the House of Osman has, after so many years, stored for us.”

The Steward bowed from the waist, and led the way from the Sultan’s quarters. The small group left the Sultan’s Privy Chamber, where the Janissary guard immediately formed their protective human wall around the Sultan. They left the royal quarters and walked directly to the Treasury.

The guards remained in formation at the entryway as the three men entered the multi-domed stone building. When they reached the store rooms themselves, Suleiman felt for the first time an uneasiness at the weight of the responsibility of his office. He could feel an almost physical mass pressing him into the stone floor. Ibrahim noted the look on the Sultan’s face, but said nothing.

“First, Majesty, we should see the emblem of your power.” He reached into one of the shelves and removed an obviously heavy
bundle. He carried it with both arms to a wooden table, and set the package down. Then, he carefully untied the silk cords and unwrapped the brocade cover. He spread the cloths out on the table and stepped back, revealing to Suleiman the sword of Suleiman’s great-grandfather, Mehmet,
Fatih.
The great jeweled weapon was massive in its bulk, and Suleiman realized that only a man of immense power could wield such a weapon in battle. The blade had a very slight curve, less than that of the traditional scimitars of the Janissaries. The great sword represented the power of one of the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire.