The Wanderer

by Mika Waltari

  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.”

  As I stared at her she took the vase from my hands and set it down carefully upon the floor. At first I thought I must have had a touch of the sun, so preposterous did it seem that Giulia of all people should permit a slave to strike her in the face, and then defend his action. We stood all three staring at one another. Then Alberto’s face relaxed and with a meaning look at Giulia he turned and hurried out, ignoring my call to him to return. Giulia threw herself at me, stopped my mouth with her hand, and with tears still running down her swollen cheek she panted, “Are you out of your mind or drunk, Michael, to behave so? Let me at least explain. I should never forgive you if you wronged Alberto through a misunderstanding, for he’s the best servant I ever had, and quite innocent.”

  “But,” I said, rather flustered, “he’ll get away before I can catch him. I mean to give him a hundred good lashes on the soles of his feet and send him down to the bazaar to be sold. We cannot keep a raving madman in the house.”

  Giulia seemed ill at ease, and said, “You don’t understand, Michael, and you’d better be quiet. It’s I who owe Alberto an apology; I lost my temper and struck him for some trifle that I’ve already forgotten-and don’t stand there staring like an idiot! You madden me. If my face is swollen it’s from toothache and I was on my way to the Seraglio dentist when you came in and interfered-slinking in to spy on me, though God knows I’ve nothing to hide. But if you lay a finger on Alberto I shall go to the cadi and in the presence of witnesses declare myself divorced. Alberto has suffered enough from your bad temper, though he’s a proud, sensitive man and not baseborn like you.”

  At this I flew into a passion and seizing her by the wrists I shook her and shouted, “Are you really a witch, then, Giulia-a devil in human shape? For my own sake I would not believe it, but even the strongest pitcher can go to the well too often. Never do I want to think ill of you, for I love you still. But to let a slave strike you and go unpunished is unnatural. I don’t know you. Who are you, and what have you to do with that miserable wretch?”

  Giulia burst into violent weeping; she flung her arms about my neck and stroked my cheek with her hair. Then with downcast eyes she said faintly, “Ah, Michael, I’m only a foolish woman and of course you know best. But let us go into our room to talk it over. It’s not fit that our slaves should hear us quarreling.”

  She grasped my hand and I followed her unresisting to our bedchamber where, having dried her tears, she began abstractedly to undress.

  “You can talk while I change my clothes. I must go to the dentist and cannot show myself at the Seraglio in this old rag. But you may go on talking and reproach me to your heart’s content for being so bad a wife to you.”

  As she spoke she removed everything but the thin shift that she wore next her skin, and took out one gown after another to decide which best became her. Truth to tell it was long since she had accorded me the joys of marriage, and was most often assailed by a violent headache when I approached her. Therefore when I beheld her naked in the clear light of day I was spellbound by her alluring white skin, the soft curves of her limbs, and the golden hair curling freely over her bosom.

  She noticed that I was staring at her, and sighed plaintively, “Ah, Michael, you’ve only one thought in your head! Don’t glare at me so.”

  She crossed her arms over her breast and looked sideways at me with those strange eyes that in my unreason I could not forbear loving. My ears sang, my body glowed, and in a tremulous voice I begged her to wear the green velvet gown embroidered with pearls. She took it up, then let it fall again and instead chose a white and yellow brocade with a jeweled girdle.

  “This yellow dress is more slimming to the hips-”

  Her face took on a soft expression as she stood there with the gown in her hands, and she said, “Michael, tell me truly. Are you weary of your wife? Since you’ve taken to entertaining those new friends of yours you seem less close to me than you once were. Be honest with me. You’ve only to go to the cadi to be divorced from me. How should I force upon you the love your indifference has so often wounded?” She sobbed, and after a pause went on, “The love of women is a capricious thing and must ever be wooed afresh. It’s long since you brought me flowers or showed me any other attention. No, you push a purse into my hand and tell me to buy what I want, and this coldness has hurt me deeply. That’s why I have been so irritable-and perhaps that’s why I struck Alberto, who bears only good will to both of us. So you see it has all been your fault, Michael, and I cannot remember when last you took me in your arms and kissed me as a man kisses the woman he loves.”

  Her wild and groundless accusations took my breath away, but shyly she drew near me and pressed her warm white body against me, saying, “Kiss me, Michael! You know you’re the only man I ever loved-the only man whose kisses really satisfy me. Perhaps in your eyes I seem old and worn out, and like all Moslems you desire a new and younger wife. But kiss me!”

  I kissed her treacherous lips, and what ensued need not be told, for the wise man will guess and for the
fool all explanations are vain. All I can say is that barely an hour later I went readily down to Alberto to beg his pardon on Giulia’s behalf because she had so exasperated him as to make him strike her. I asked him to overlook the hard words I had flung at him, and ended by giving him two ducats. Alberto listened without betraying by the flicker of an eyelid what he was thinking, but he took the money and confessed freely that his behavior had been most unbecoming. Peace reigned in the house once more. Giulia hid her somewhat weary eyes behind a thin veil and was rowed to the Seraglio. May a wiser man rebuke my blindness; I cannot. A man in love is always blind, be he the Sultan himself or the meanest of slaves, and it is easy for a landsman to be wise about a shipwreck. Let the clever man cast a glance at his own marriage before sneering at mine.

  I was not the only blind man. Sultana Khurrem received Mustafa ben-Nakir in the presence of the Kislar-Aga and spoke with him first from behind the curtain; later she revealed to him her laughing face. When the cool Mustafa returned from the Seraglio he was like another being. He sped to me on winged feet. His eyes shone and his pale face glowed. The first things he asked of me were wine and roses, and with an autumn rose in his hand he said, “Ah, Michael! Either I’ve lost my understanding of character or we have been entirely mistaken in this woman. Roxelana is like the glow of morning. Her complexion is snow and roses, her laughter is silver, and to look into her eyes is to see a smiling heaven. No evil thought could lurk behind that white forehead. I’m out of my senses, Michael, and know not what to think of her or of myself. For Allah’s sake melt amber in wine, call musicians, sing to me, for devine poems are welling up in my heart and no one has lain under such a spell before.”

  “Allah be gracious to you, dear Mustafa ben-Nakir!” I stammered at last. “Surely you cannot have fallen in love with that diabolical Russian!”

  “How should I dare to lift my eyes to the gates of heaven? But no one can forbid me to drink wine mixed with amber, to scatter my verses to the winds, or to play upon a reed pipe in praise of Khurrem the beautiful.”

  He wept tears of rapture while I surveyed him with distaste and said, “The Sultana is a shameless woman to flout custom and the law by unveiling her face and so leading you into temptation. How could the Kislar-Aga permit it? But tell me, did you speak to her of the Grand Vizier? And what did she say? That, after all, is the most important thing.”

  Mustafa ben-Nakir dried his tears, and forgetting for once to polish his rose-colored nails he looked at me in wonder and said, “I don’t remember. I recall nothing of what we said, for I listened only to the music of her voice and her laughter until she unveiled her face. Then I was so bewitched that when she left me my head was like a blown egg. Compared with the miracle that has happened all else is indifferent to me.”

  Giddy with wine he sprang up and began to dance, stamping rhythmically and joyously ringing the silver bells at his girdle. And as he danced he crooned love songs until I began to suspect he had been eating hashish. Yet his delirium infected me and filled me with an irresistible desire to laugh. I blended drops of fragrant ambergris in the wine and soon I seemed to see how destiny sped like a gazelle from the swiftest hunter, and mocked the vain pursuit.

  At the beginning of winter the Sultan and the Grand Vizier returned with the army from the campaign in Hungary, after striking terror to the hearts of all Christendom and revealing the formidable might of the Ottoman Empire. For five days there were celebrations in the city and the nights were bright with bonfires. From the arsenal, colored fiery serpents sprang into the air, and burning oil was poured upon the waters until waves of fire rolled over the dark surface of the Golden Horn.

  In this joyous tumult discord was drowned. The price of slaves dropped, the spahis found cheap labor for their farms, and the Sultan distributed lavish presents among his janissaries, so that harmony and peace prevailed. The people are ever willing to forgive the errors of princes, but upstarts come off less lightly. Nevertheless, Ibrahim was too proud to show how deeply he was hurt by certain stifled murmurs.

  He would not allow himself to be blinded by his own proclamations of victory, or by the fireworks that he had commanded. From the steps of his palace he surveyed with a wry smile the crowds that filled the Atmeidan, and said, “War was inevitable, Michael el-Hakim. The Western menace has been removed and the time has come to set our faces to the East. Spread the news as widely as you can, and above all tell your remarkable wife, that she may bring it to the knowledge of Khurrem-sultana.”

  Throughout the winter and spring Ibrahim had great need of my services. Besides an ambassador from King Ferdinand, there arrived also one from Venice to claim recompense for the service rendered us in Preveza Bay. The Venetian colony in Galata received their envoy with high honors. The Sultan, in token of his displeasure with the sea pashas, promoted the Young Moor to the command of four war galleys with which to blockade the port of Coron in Morea, recently captured by Doria. To show how lightly he valued Coron compared with Hungary, he sent thither battle-scarred old Jahja-pasha with five thousand janissaries and the curt command to decide for himself which he valued most: his own battered head or a horsehair switch at the top of Coron tower.

  The Young Moor blockaded Coron from the sea, but in the summer Doria came cruising off the point with the united navies of the Pope and the Knights of St. John, meaning to break through to the fortress with provisions and powder. The sea pashas, enraged by the Sultan’s disfavor, followed the Moor with some seventy sail to Coron, where the young hero, crying on the name of the Prophet, bore down upon Doria and threw his supply ships into confusion, heedless of the guns cf the terrible carrack. For very shame the sea pashas were compelled to take a hand.

  Doria now found himself forced into open battle, though his intention had been merely to run the blockade and then make of! at once. The Young Moor sank several transports while others were driven onto the rocks. Then he attacked the first of the Knights’ galleys, hove grapnels over her rail, and had already captured her by the time the sea pashas came to his support.

  Amid the roar of cannon that echoed among the hills, amid the billowing, concealing smoke, the splintering of oars, and the yells of the combatants, the Young Moor showed the pashas how sea battles are fought. And these worthies in their fright forced their way in among Doria’s vessels to form a ring about the galleys of the Young Moor, whom they dragged forcibly from the deck of his prize. He was wounded in the head, arm, and side, but still he wept and cursed and cried to the devil for aid. After rowing aimlessly hither and thither and colliding with one another, the valiant pashas at last extricated themselves from the enemy and removed the Young Moor’s two remaining galleys to safety.

  Doria, greatly startled by the unexpected belligerence of the sea pashas, did not attempt pursuit, but was content to land his supplies with all speed and stand away for home. The sea pashas Zey and Himeral at first could not believe in their glorious victory over the hitherto invincible Doria; then, in triumph, they hoisted all their flags and pennants and even unwound their turbans to stream them in the wind, amid the noise of trumpets, drums, and cymbals. The only flaw in their triumph was the unseemly behavior of the Young Moor, who with clenched fists and tears of indignation abused the pashas as cowards and traitors.

  But who could long harbor resentment on so glad an evening? They freely forgave the stripling on the grounds that he was delirious from fever, and bound him to his cot lest he leap overboard.

  Nevertheless the boy was cheered by Jahja-pasha who, having followed the course of the engagement from the shore, rowed over to the Moslem flagship that evening, bawling curses all the way until the most hardened sea janissaries turned pale. Once aboard, this doughty warrior, whose head was the stake in the game for Coron, seized Himeral-pasha by the beard and smote him in the face. The one object of the naval action, he screamed, had been at all costs to prevent the relief of Coron, and by failing in this simple task the pashas had prolonged the siege possibly for weeks, though Coron ha
d been on the point of capitulation. The sea pashas saw that the fear of losing his head had made him mad, and with united strength they cuffed and buffeted him back into his boat.

  Yet because of the foolhardy conduct of the Young Moor, not all the supply ships had reached the fortress, and a state of famine still prevailed there. The Greek inhabitants of the town lacked the endurance of the Spaniards, and during the night they crept beyond the walls in search of roots and bark. Some of these men fell into the hands of Jahja’s janissaries and at his orders were gruesomely tortured next morning in full view of the garrison. This spectacle had its effect; the Spaniards surrendered and were permitted to embark and sail away with full military honors.

  Thanks to the agents of the Knights of St. John, Doria kept abreast of Seraglio affairs and was well aware that Sultan Suleiman had offered Khaireddin the command of all his ships, ports, islands, and seas. It was said that Khaireddin welcomed this appointment with tears of joy, and having left the reins of government in the hands of his young son Hassan-under the guardianship of a trustworthy captain-he at once set sail for Sicilian waters in the hope of cutting off Doria’s retreat from Coron and crushing him between the Algerian vessels and the Sultan’s fleet, which he naturally supposed would give chase. Doria eluded him, however, and after a profitable engagement with a pirate, Khaireddin sailed away with his prizes to meet the sea pashas. These received him with the proper honors, though grudgingly, and Khaireddin reviled them for their cowardice and their failure to do their part in the capture of Doria. He then ordered them to release the Young Moor, whom he embraced and treated like his own son.

  All this I learned from hearsay, but that autumn I saw for myself how Khaireddin’s forty ships glided majestically up the Marmara and anchored in the Golden Horn. From Scutari on the Asiatic side to the hills of Pera, the shores were white with people, and the Sultan himself stepped onto his marble quay to watch the vessels pass. Their thunderous salute echoed over land and sea and was answered by the guns of other ships anchored in the harbor. The most eminent pashas and renegade captains made haste to greet Khaireddin as he stepped ashore.