“It is far more than a residence,” Papa told me. “All the business of the empire is conducted here. They say no event is too small, no person too humble, to engage the sultan’s attention. After all, even the grand vizier and the commanders of his army and navy are considered his personal slaves.”
“I do not like the sound of that,” I said. “And we?”
“Let us put it this way,” Papa said. “He does not buy and sell either viziers or Jews, but he has the power of life and death over all his subjects, and he expects total loyalty. It is never wise to take any action without considering his will.”
We came to a monumental arched gate supported by two conical towers and a thick section of crenellated wall. It was well guarded by janissaries dressed in uniforms of red and gold, consisting of şalvar, the loose Turkish trousers, tucked into high boots, tunic and vest, and a tall conical hat with a rectangular flap of cloth hanging down behind it. All of them had dark mustachios that added to their air of menace. A curved sword hung at each janissary’s waist. Those nearest the gate held arquebuses as well.
“Fierce, are they not?” Papa murmured. “All born Christian in the Balkans, taken as boys, and educated in an inner courtyard of this very palace. Our Jewish countrymen extol the sultan’s benevolence to the Jews. But make no mistake. The sultan’s welcome has its foundation in the cizye, the poll tax levied on non-Muslims.”
“Who collects the taxes?” I asked, trying to look through the gate without getting too close to the janissaries. I could see handsomely clothed and mounted troops falling into ranks, their horses prancing and shaking out their manes.
“We do,” Papa said. “The congregation is taxed collectively, and the rabbi is responsible for paying it over.”
“It is a clever system,” I said. “The sultan does not borrow from Jewish bankers and get rich by defaulting on the loans and banishing the lenders as the sovereigns did in Spain, but finances his empire through taxation and gets the taxed to collect it.”
“If you wish to become wealthy here,” Papa said, “one way to do so is to seek an appointment as a tax farmer. Indeed, the tax farmer has to start out rich enough to purchase the office. For a sizable sum, the sultan authorizes the tax farmer to collect the revenues of some substantial office such as a mint or a port where there are all sorts of taxes on trade. The sultan takes a portion of the revenue, while the tax farmer keeps the rest. If any difficulties arise, the problem is the tax farmer’s, not the sultan’s.”
“It is not an occupation that appeals to me,” I said. “I want to prosper, but I have seen what can happen when men make their most important decisions on the basis of a desire for riches.”
I could see the horsemen circling on the grassy expanse of the courtyard and forming up into two bodies facing each other. Each held a short wooden javelin loosely couched.
“Are Jews allowed inside?” I asked, gesturing toward the gate.
“Anyone may enter the outermost courtyard,” he said. “It is like a park, as you can see, with administrative buildings set around it. One of them is the imperial mint.”
“Let us enter,” I said. “I would like to see what the horsemen are doing. It looks like some kind of sport or military drill.”
The janissaries neither acknowledged nor stopped us. When I looked back, those closest to the gate were casting quick glances at the activity inside.
“What do you want to do with your life, Diego?” Papa asked. “You do not want to remain a sailor, do you?”
“I never intended to,” I said, “though I have come to love the sea. I am a skilled seaman, given a sailing ship on the Ocean Sea. But I am no expert when it comes to Muslim galleys upon the Mediterranean.”
“There are other trades involving the sea,” Papa said, “shipbuilding and commerce. Trade between Istanbul and lands to be reached by ship is growing and will increase further as the sultan seeks to extend Ottoman influence to the Maghreb, besides having his eye on Venice.”
“I would like some time to think about it,” I said.
Two groups of twenty horsemen each now faced each other at some distance. Each team, for so they must be, had a flagbearer. One team flew a green banner, the other a blue. One of the green players picked up his reins and galloped toward the blue team, calling out a single word as he threw his javelin. The game had started. A single player on the opposing team responded, guiding his horse away from the speeding javelin and calling out as he threw his own. Before long, both teams were fully engaged, wheeling and galloping as they cast their javelins. The object seemed to be to hit an opposing player. When a blue player hit his opponent’s horse, his own teammates as well as his opponents jeered. After watching for some time, I realized that each player called out the name of his chosen opponent before letting the javelin fly. Several times, the most skillful players actually caught the javelin aimed at them in one hand. The horsemanship was dazzling. The players hardly touched their reins, but guided their horses with their knees. More and more riders broke away from the groups. One blue player lured three green players to pursue him to the far end of the field, taking pressure off his teammates.
A crowd had gathered, cheering on one team or the other and furtively making wagers.
One loser, flipping a gold ducat at a grinning winner, said, “It is written: ‘The sin is greater than the profit.’” He then cast a sharp look around. Only my father and I and a gangling youth of about fifteen in a white turban and silver-embroidered vest over white garments stood near enough to overhear what I suspected was a blasphemous quotation from the Quran. The man’s gaze passed over us dismissively. I could see the boy noticed that he had been snubbed. His shoulders drooped, and he hung his head with a sigh.
“Asalamu alaykum,” I said, nodding at the boy.
“Alaykum asalaam.” His face brightened. “They play well, do they not? I support the greens. Which team do you favor?”
“I have no preference,” I said, “because I have never seen this game played before. I don’t even know what it is called.”
“How is that possible?” the boy asked. “Everybody knows cereed.”
“I have but recently arrived in Istanbul. My name is Diego.”
“I am Hasan. Where are you from, that you do not know cereed?”
“I am originally from Seville, in Spain, but lately I have been in Italy, and, before that, in the Indies, far across the Ocean Sea. Will you tell me about the game?”
“The cereed is the javelin. It is a very ancient game. They play it in the army to stay fit between battles and at festivals like the end of Ramazan. The team gains points by hitting a player or catching the cereed, also by retrieving javelins from the ground with the curved cane they carry. They lose points if they hit the horse or injure it or if they ride out of bounds.”
“Do you play cereed, Hasan?” I smiled at him.
The boy drooped, all the animation in his face and bearing leaching away.
“I am not allowed to bear weapons, even in sport,” he said.
“Why is that, if I may ask?”
The boy looked sideways at me through his dark lashes.
“You are not a Muslim, are you?”
“No, I am a Jew.”
“I thought so,” he said. “Then I will tell you, and perhaps you will not regard me with disgust.”
“I am sure that I will not,” I said.
“I am the son of Prince Cem,” he said. “I should not be alive.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Are you ill?”
“You have not heard of my father? That is hard to believe.” He added hastily, “Though I do believe you!”
“As I said, I have just arrived,” I said. “I am still learning about my new home. Tell me about your father.”
“My father was Prince Cem,” he said, “the brother of our Sultan Bayezid. He is dead now. When my grandfather, Sultan Mehmet, died, the grand vizier tried to make my father the sultan. But the janissaries were loyal to Bayezid. They killed
the grand vizier and declared my uncle the sultan. For a time, my father ruled in Bursa, hoping to share the empire. But the sultan marched against him. After my father lost his final battle, he had to flee. He hoped the Christian Knights of Rhodes would help him regain his throne, but instead, they held him captive for many years. I was born after he fled, so I never knew him. Later on, he became the prisoner of the pope. They say Sultan Bayezid paid the pope much gold to promise never to release him. The sultan has held me hostage all my life. Cem died earlier this year, but he thinks it safer not to release me, in case I should try to usurp the throne. I am not allowed to learn the art of war. But I must be grateful. Everyone knows that when Bayezid fought my father, he said, “There is no kinship between rulers.” It is normal for a sultan to behead his rivals or to have them poisoned or strangled with a silken bowstring. But he lets me live. So I must never seek to rule.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “It seems unfair that you cannot even play cereed. Look, the game is over. Your team has won. Did you have a wager on the game?”
“No,” he said, “I am not allowed to have coin.”
It seemed a sad life for a boy. The players were clapping each other on the back and making rude remarks as grooms came to lead away the horses. They reminded me of my Taino friends after a game of batey. How differently the Turks and the Taino regarded sport. Here, the game was played with weapons and considered preparation for war. The Taino had no word for war, played with a bouncing sphere that would harm no one, and used the game to resolve disputes and honor the gods.
“I have a friend you might like to meet,” I said to Hasan. “If I may come and visit you again, I will bring him.”
“Another Jew?” Hasan asked. “I would welcome him, for I have no friends. Nobody wants to be suspected of conspiring against the throne.”
“He is neither Jew, Christian, nor Muslim,” I said, “for he comes from a faraway land across the Ocean Sea. His name is Hutia. I have seen him spear fish and small animals, and I think he could match any of those players at throwing the cereed. But when I first met him, he had never seen a horse. He says he is getting used to them, but I think he still does not quite like them.”
“He would like my horse,” Hasan said. “I am allowed to ride, and my mare, Esinti, is both swift and sweet-tempered. She is gray, and her name means ‘breeze.’ Please do come to visit me, and bring your friend Hutia with you. You may ask for Prince Hasan, and someone will fetch me. There is usually a game of cereed at this hour. If you come then, we can watch it together. If anyone questions you about your business with me, you may say that you have come to tutor me in—what skills do you have that I might study with you?”
“How about Hebrew,” I said, laughing, “and navigation?”
“Those will do,” Hasan said. “Please come back soon. I am very happy to have met you!”
“That poor boy,” Papa said as we passed out through the great arch and made our way through the winding streets toward home. “What a lonely life he has.”
“You heard all he said?” I asked.
“Yes, I could not help hearing,” Papa said, “though I tried to stay out of your way. Of the thousands of souls who inhabit that palace, I think you have befriended the one who cannot offer you any advantage.”
“Then it is a good thing you raised me not to consider advantage in choosing my friends!” I said. “Hasan seems younger than his age, do you not think so?”
“That is what living without a sense of purpose will do to you,” Papa said. “Think of that when you are tempted to put off choosing your life’s work.”
“Yes, Papa.” I regarded him with affection. “Oh, Papa, I am so glad to be with you again! You cannot imagine how many times I longed for your counsel. Indeed, you were often present in my mind, adjuring me to behave far more wisely than I would have on my own.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Baruch Ha’shem, you are not like that poor fatherless boy. The blood of Mehmet the Conqueror flows in his veins, and the only guidance he has ever received is that he must not be a warrior, a statesman, or a visionary. Did you notice how adept he was at conspiring to make sure your presence in the palace would not be questioned? I suppose an Ottoman prince imbibes intrigue with his mother’s milk.”
Chapter 26: Rachel
When Mama asked Rachel if she might have behaved so recklessly as to need to marry in haste, she refuted the suggestion so indignantly that Mama had ended by offering an unprecedented apology, with Rachel in floods of tears. She had not been able to return home until she had bathed her swollen eyes at one of the convenient public fountains in the bazaar. By common consent, neither Mama nor the girls brought up Rachel’s revelation or the matter of her marriage again. If they talked of it among themselves, she did not know of it. Nor had they mentioned it to Papa, or he would certainly have insisted on discussing it with Rachel, most likely calling a full family conclave without delay.
Rachel longed for a good talk with Diego, who would surely understand her feelings and might advise her how to approach Papa and persuade Mama to support her. But life in Istanbul differed from the cameraderie of the road, the even greater liberty of life on shipboard, where Rachel had passed for a boy, and the glorious freedom of the Taino yucayeque. There, Rachel had shared in the constant but agreeable work of keeping the village fed and comfortable and been given unstinting love and whatever else she asked for without a moment’s hesitation. She missed bare limbs and freedom of movement, the easy social intercourse between men and women, and the joy of throwing herself into a game of batey, not to mention the elation of winning and the delicious exhaustion at the end of the day, when a flower-scented breeze rocked her hamaca and sent her untroubled dreams.
It was never quiet in Istanbul. The houses in their street were crammed close together, the stars looked pinched and feeble instead of glowing and beckoning as they did in Quisqueya, and no matter how late she lay awake, there was always a couple arguing or a baby crying, if not both at once. Men and women lived such separate lives here that she could never find an opportunity to pour out her troubles into Diego’s ear. He was always gone, either at synagogue with Papa or running all over Istanbul, going wherever he wanted and looking at whatever he wanted to see, secure in the knowledge that his family trusted him to define his own destiny and shape a productive future for himself. They weren’t even pushing him to marry! Or if they were, they were probably telling him he had plenty of time, and of course he had to get himself established in some trade and wait for those eligible little girls to grow up enough to make acceptable wives.
Worse, she did not dare talk about all this to Hutia. He did not understand jealousy or envy. She would be ashamed for him to hear her whine about her petty discontents. But it would not be petty if they made her marry someone who was not Hutia! She could not bring herself to tell him that her family opposed the match, because she wanted him to love them, not to resent them. Maybe she could get Hutia and Diego between them to broach the topic of Hutia’s conversion, letting Papa and Mama get used to the idea of a Jewish Hutia before mentioning betrothal.
This she thought she had accomplished one evening when, the evening meal over, the family sat together making the most of the time when various tasks could be performed before the light failed. Elvira and Akiva had gone home, and Susanna had gone with them. The newlyweds lived next door with Cousin Chaim and Cousin Miriam, although it was a family joke that one would never know it, they spent so much time at the Mendozas’. Mama was mending one of Papa’s shirts. Rachel herself was embroidering a vest in colored silks, a task she enjoyed and would have done more if it had not so often led to someone asking if the pretty garment was for her wedding. Papa was mending a shoe. Diego was poring over the Torah portion he was supposed to read on Shabbat; the rabbi had let him take the precious parchment home because it was so long since he had read Hebrew. Of course he wanted to make the family proud. If only she too could make the family proud simply by reading! H
utia was oiling and sharpening a knife and humming under his breath.
She had pulled Diego aside just before they all sat down to eat and begged him to say something to Papa about Hutia’s desire to convert. But now he was absorbed in study, his finger traveling from right to left across the page and his lips moving as he silently pronounced the Hebrew words. If he did not take care, he would turn into a stuffy old man like Cousin Chaim, who locked himself into his study, saying that every Jewish man was commanded to learn Torah as the highest form of mitzvah, and emerged hours later so rumpled and dazed that it was obvious he had done nothing but nap all afternoon. Meanwhile, Cousin Miriam worked from morning to night, cleaning and cooking and baking not only for her family, but to sell her delicious fig tarts in the bazaar and bring in a little extra money for a bottle of wine for Cousin Chaim or a new silk tallit for Akiva. That is what women do, Mama told her when she said it wasn’t fair that Cousin Miriam did all the work and Cousin Chaim did none. It was not the life Rachel wanted. Susanna liked nothing better than to have Mama impart a secret recipe that her own mother had handed down to her. And Elvira was downright smug these days. If she didn’t want anyone to know yet that she was expecting a baby, she should not be knitting tiny caps and blankets where everyone could see.
“Diego? Diego!” When he looked up, Rachel cast a meaningful glance at Hutia and jerked her head toward Papa.
“What? Oh.” Diego shook his head and pulled himself together, smoothing out the page of Torah and folding a clean cloth over it before putting it carefully on a shelf where it could not get damaged.
“Papa,” he said, “Hutia and I wish to have a serious talk with you and Mama. That is, Hutia has a request, and I have promised to help him explain and ask for your support.”
Journey of Strangers Page 17
