by Mika Waltari
Mustafa ben-Nakir cried impatiently, “Are you asleep, Michael? Sultan Suleiman is unlit to be lord of the world. The Grand Vizier carries the Sultan’s personal seal, and the Seraglio knows that Suleiman has been sick for some days. The janissaries love Prince Mustafa. The Young Moor is wintering here with his ships, and all we need is a large enough sum to distribute among the janissaries, rosy promises for the people, and larger farms for the spahis. Then the Seraglio would joyfully proclaim Prince Mustafa sultan. Michael, Michael! Destiny unaided has prepared all things for tomorrow.”
“But,” I asked in amazement, “what do you mean to do with Sultan Suleiman?”
“He must die, of course,” said Mustafa in surprise. “One of those two must die, as you must see for yourself. When the Sultan has obtained his fatwa he will invite the Grand Vizier to an evening meal with him, but this time the meal will end with the coming of the mutes. Before this, however, will be the Grand Vizier’s moment-the only moment and the last. They eat together; then poison, dagger, or noose will speak. The Sultan’s face can be painted to conceal all signs of violence. And in any event, after his death the people will be thinking more about young Mustafa than about him.”
My thoughts took a bold flight, and after my long depression and apathy I was fired with enthusiasm; for reason told me that Mustafa’s plan was excellent. Once the deed was done neither janissaries nor eunuchs would ask needless questions; they would quickly submit to the will of Allah and hasten forward to receive from the heir the gifts to be expected at the beginning of a new reign. Meanwhile the cannon of the Young Moor would command the city. Should any pasha of the Divan be foolish enough to demand an inquiry, his colleagues would hasten to suppress him in the hope of seizing his appointment. I myself would lose nothing by the altered regime, whereas if the Grand Vizier were to die a traitor’s death at the hands of the mutes, my own head would soon roll into the vaults beneath the Gateway of
Peace. Tradition would require the distribution of a large number of black kaftans among the Grand Vizier’s adherents and servants.
We had already drunk deeply of the wine that Andy had set down within reach, and now I said, “Your health, Mustafa ben-Nakir! Your plan is excellent but you have not yet told me all. Be honest for once and say why you’re risking your neck. I know you and your philosophy well enough to be sure that you wouldn’t lift a finger for the Grand Vizier alone.”
By the light of the rising moon I saw him incline his head toward mine. He seized the wine jar and drank, then said rapidly, “Ah, Michael my friend! Though I sought solace among the fair daughters of Bagdad how could I find it, when in her I had learned to adore the unattainable? I must be freed from this phantom, for reason tells me that she is but a woman like other women. But I can only win to this release in her arms, which is possible only if Sultan Suleiman dies and I can claim her as my reward. It is as simple as that. For the sake of a woman’s rippling laugh the goddess of history will tomorrow turn a fresh page in her great book.”
He hid his face in his hands and his whole body shook with passion, pain, and the sorcery that wine and the cool spring night had wrought. Andy approached, commiserated with him on the birth pangs of his poem, and helped him to his feet, though he too was so unsteady that they nearly tumbled into the water together. When Mustafa had released himself from Andy’s arms he seized me by the shoulders and muttered thickly, “You know enough, Michael el-Hakim! Hasten now to him who is in both our thoughts. When he has promised to do his part we will make all ready for tomorrow.”
Andy helped Mustafa away to bed and then at my orders put on a clean kaftan to attend me, for I dared not set forth alone on so perilous an errand. While the sleepy slaves were preparing the boat, Giulia came hurrying down to the landing stage, wringing her hands and weeping.
“Don’t leave me alone, Michael! What has happened and what did Mustafa ben-Nakir want of you? And whither are you bound? You would not hide anything rrom me?”
I told her that Mustafa ben-Nakir had drunk himself insensible while composing a poem in honor of a certain exalted lady, but that I, being unable to sleep, was on my way to the great mosque to watch and pray. She told me that she too was sleepless and begged me to take her with me, that she might seek the company of the harem ladies. I could not refuse, yet it was without pleasure than I took my place beside her beneath the stern awning; indeed, I was surprised at my own sudden antipathy to her presence. Chancing to brush against her I felt that she was trembling.
“Are you cold, Giulia?” I asked in wonder. Then as she drew away from me, I turned my eyes to Alberto’s dark, expressionless face. I remembered Giulia’s cat, and many other things, until I too began to tremble.
“That Tunisian drug,” I said in a low voice. “Why did you put it in the fruit you gave me some days ago? I had no need of it; I was quite well.”
My calm tones lured her into the trap, for scheming though her nature was she often saw no farther than the end of her nose.
“Ah, Michael, you’re not angry with me? It was for your good. You looked unwell and I feared you might have caught the boatman’s sickness. I could not guess it would make you so ill.”
After this admission I knew for certain that Sultana Khurrem had heard of the drug and begged her to obtain some of it. But Giulia had wanted first to try it out on me. It was clear that in such a matter the Sultana could not approach the Seraglio physicians. But Giulia was her confidante, and the very next evening the drug was in Khurrem’s hands, to be skillfully introduced into the finest of the fruits destined for the Sultan’s dessert. Courtesy, of course, required the Grand Vizier to offer the Sultan this very fruit.
Despite this new evidence of Giulia’s treachery I felt no particular anger. Perhaps it had consumed itself. Indeed the certainty brought me something approaching relief. No more was said, and when we came alongside the Seraglio quay I set her and Alberto ashore before proceeding further to the end of the street leading to the great mosque. From here Andy and I could walk unnoticed uphill toward the Atmeidan and then follow the high wall surrounding the forbidden gardens. While I entered the Grand Vizier’s palace by a back entrance, Andy remained on guard in the street.
I was taken straight to the Grand Vizier, who was sitting in his library on a plain leather cushion, holding a Greek parchment in his hand. He smiled pleasantly and said, “My clock is slow, and so I am not at all surprised to see you at so late an hour.”
This time he was singularly well and carefully dressed. His hair was oiled and his hands and nails colored. He had even put red on his lips and wore earrings set with sparkling diamonds, and seemed to have regained his usual serenity. Wasting no time on preliminary courtesies I said, “Noble lord, your clock is not slow. I fancy that someone has bribed your clockmaker or the Sultan’s to put it deliberately out of order, for you to take it as a bad omen. But your clock is not slow, happy Ibrahim. Indeed, it gains upon that of your enemies.”
I told him rapidly of all I had learned-of the poison in the fruit, of the fatwa, of Mustafa ben-Nakir’s plan, and of his brotherhood that stood ready to give Ibrahim the Grand Master their support.
“All is in readiness and nothing remains for you to do but to grasp the rudder of events. Strike first! Remember that where you are concerned the Sultan is nothing but an assassin. You eat alone together, and you are certainly stronger than he. You can take no weapon with you, but you can strangle him with the chain of the square seal. No one will suspect that of being the means of death, however carefully they search your clothes. But first strike him a heavy blow on the temple to keep him quiet. Be swift and bold and all will go well. Dominion of the empire awaits you-dominion perhaps of the whole world!”
He listened to me quietly and as if I were telling him some familiar tale. When I had finished, he said softly, “So, Michael el-Hakim, you’re a traitor after all. But why did you not poison me, when you had so good an opportunity, or at least rob me? But I have had the money counted and none is mis
sing. Truly Allah’s creatures are strange in their diversity. There, do not weep! I would not for the world distress my only friend.”
He patted me lightly on the cheek with his warm hand and invited me to sit at his right side; he poured wine for me into a golden goblet and chose for me the best pieces from a dish before him, as if I had been an honored guest. Having calmed me he went on, “You may be my friend, yet you do not know me. I have long considered all you suggest, and the plan in itself is excellent. Yet there is one drawback. Myself. No one knows this but the Sultan, and he showed his knowledge of it in giving me his seal. In his heart he knows that our friendship binds me closer than iron fetters. No, I shall not murder him. Since his youth he has been a melancholy man, and sorrow will keep him even closer company when I am gone. Henceforth terror will rule the Seraglio-and all because of the Russian. Deeply, deeply do I pity him. He will be the loneliest man in all the Empire.
“You once said that a man must be loyal to at least one creature on earth. If you, then why not I? Man is greater than statecraft, honor, wealth, and power, though many will not see this. But let us be honest and admit that just as your loyalty to me is no more than loyalty to yourself, so is my loyalty to the Sultan nothing but loyalty to a certain poor Ibrahim who sits at his side, trying to persuade himself that he is a true man. The hour of parting is at hand, and we may doff our masks.”
For a long time we sat in silence until no doubt he wearied of my company, for he said politely, “If indeed you do not mean to run away, do me one last service and have my body buried decentiy, after the Moslem fashion.”
I suspect that he made me this last request from sheer courtesy, to show his faith in me, for he can have cared little what became of his remains. But I promised to do as he asked and kissed his hand and shoulder in farewell. Thus I parted forever from the most notable and singular of all the men I have met, a greater man than either the Emperor or the Sultan.
When I emerged from the servants’ entrance I found Andy sitting in the street in the moonlight, singing a scurrilous German song. I said, “This is Ramadan, my dear Andy. Let us go to the great mosque to pray.”
As with slippers in hand we stepped through the great copper gates and in among the porphyry pillars, peace entered my heart as softly and gently as my bare feet sank into the rich carpets on the floor. Only a few lamps were burning, and above them the vast dome soared up like the night sky.
The mosque was empty, but soon the feast of Bairam would come, when on the last night of Ramadan the hundred lamps would burn, the gilded texts would gleam from the giant medallions, and tens of thousands of Moslems would crowd under the great dome to hear the Koran read aloud from the throne of the Imams. Sultan Suleiman himself would be present, and behind the golden grille the ladies of the harem would follow the ceremonial, among them the devout Sultana Khurrem with Giulia at her side. But I should not share in the rejoicing. Along subterranean conduits my headless body would be sluggishly moving toward the Marmara.
Beneath a solitary lamp I pressed my forehead to the soft rug, rose, and once more prostrated myself before the face of Allah. But above all I directed my prayers to the incorruptible judge within myself, begging for strength to leave my imprisoning body without fear.
The crescent moon was dipping into cloud as the boat touched our landing stage and we stepped ashore. Giulia had not returned, nor was the skulking Alberto to be seen. Mustafa ben-Nakir still lay in profound slumber on my bed. I resolved to take advantage of the moment and said to Andy, “I want to speak to you seriously, so don’t interrupt me with foolish questions. Tomorrow, the next day, or at latest in three days’ time I shall be a dead man. As I am a slave of the Sultan’s, my house and possessions revert to him, though through the favor she enjoys Giulia may be able to secure a lawful settlement. She is a free woman. And you, Andy, are a free man; I have seen to that. Your share of Muley-Hassan’s diamonds is in my care and after my death you’re to have my share, too. No one knows of these stones. Now is our chance to bury them in the garden. After my death, after the auction that will be held here, and when I have been quite forgotten-that will be at most a week, if I know the Seraglio-you can dig them up and sell the smallest of them to a reliable Jew for your journey money. I will give you his name later. The wisest thing you can do is to go to Egypt and seek the protection of the good eunuch Suleiman. You can either sail with him to India or, if he advises it, return to Venice and the Christian countries. You would do best to leave this house early tomorrow and stay for the time with the dervishes, for Moslems treat their holy men and other eccentrics well and do not persecute them.”
Andy stared at me with an expressionless face. Then sighing deeply he said, “Allah truly is the one God, though at times I have doubted his sanity, peace be with him. I hear and I obey, and will pack up and go to Egypt if need be. But there’s a time for everything and I shall not give up until I have seen your head fall with my own eyes. No, I shall not leave you, though they should crack my skull for it-if they can.”
I rebuked him; I sought with both harsh and gentle words to persuade him. But he was obdurate, and I could do nothing but thank him irritably for his friendship and then hurry down with him to bury the diamonds.
By the time we returned from this task, one could distinguish a black thread from a white, and a new day in Ramadan was beginning. Regardless of the sacred laws we went at once to rest, and with the peace of renunciation in my heart I sank into a profound slumber. I lay thus until roused by Mustafa ben-Nakir, who hung over me with tousled hair and his lionskin askew over his shoulders. Rising quickly I washed and dressed without a word, and at the sight of my face he too held his peace. Then unwilling to keep him longer in suspense I told him of what had passed.
As I spoke his face grew ever darker, though like a wise man he allowed no needless ejaculation to escape his lips-a circumstance greatly to his credit, for who else could have listened without cursing to the story of the crazed obstinacy with which the Grand Vizier had thrust aside our helping hands? When I had ended, Mustafa ben- Nakir began in his turn to wash himself, dye his hands, and anoint his head.
“Grand Vizier Ibrahim has condemned himself,” he said at last. “It is easy to be mistaken in people. But now both your neck and mine are in danger, and no one will thank us for following Ibrahim to his death like sheep. Let us save our skins and cleanse ourselves from blame by testifying against him. No further harm can come to him through that, since the Sultan has already pronounced his doom by appealing to the Mufti.”
“Allah, Allah!” I cried aghast. “May your name be accursed if ever you do such a thing.”
He looked at me in wonder and said coldly, “I have my position and my work to do in the world, and the cornerstone of statesmanship is realism. The wise man abstains from vain struggle and joins the victor, so as to claim his share in the spoils. The turncoat is often in a better position than the conqueror, for he knows more and can sell his knowledge at a higher price.”
I gazed into his shining eyes and beautiful face.
“No,” I said softly. “I follow you no longer, Mustafa ben-Nakir. I have had enough of your doctrines.”
“Then you’re a simpleton, Michael el-Hakim, and I’ve been mistaken in you. Remember that only stupidity is punished. Not lechery, nor greed, nor betrayal, nor apostasy, but stupidity alone. And truth is the worst stupidity, for only the feeble-minded thinks he has found truth. But we will speak no more of this, and I will not seek to persuade a man as simple as you.”
“You’re right, son of the angel of death,” I answered. “All you have told me I have found out for myself. And so it is high time for me to prove that there is something greater in man than I used to think. This concerns only me, and you must forgive me if I now ask you to go. I’m weak and easily led, and should hate to betray myself at the last moment.”
A seductive smile overspread Mustafa ben-Nakir’s face, like sunlight on a shroud.
“How can you be so sure
that I am evil? How can you know that I am not the incorruptible judge within you, Michael el-Hakim?”
His bright eyes seemed to pierce me through. How he came to speak of that incorruptible judge I could not understand, and his words filled me with such horror that I sank to my knees trembling.
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” my lips murmured. But my heart was silent.
Giulia swept into the room, having just returned from the Seraglio. She drew the thin veil from her face, revealing cheeks glowing with excitement and eyes lit with secret triumph.
“Oh, Mustafa ben-Nakir!” she exclaimed. “How fortunate that you’re still here. What will you give me for bringing you good tidings?”
“Torment me not, merciless Giulia, but tell me at once what you have to say. My heart is a leaf in the wind and my hands are ice.”
Giulia tittered and said, “A certain exalted person has heard of the poems you have carved in the bark of the plane trees in the janissaries’ courtyard, and those you sent with the merchants from Basra. She laughs at your poems, but is flattered by your attention, and it may be that she is curious to see your face once more. Tonight favors a meeting of which none need know. Perhaps she will allow you to read your poems to her, for it’s said that during the nights of Ramadan women are full of whims. Hasten to the baths, Mustafa ben-Nakir, and let the attendants rub you with fragrant oils. At sunset, immediately after the hour of prayer, the forbidden door will open to you, and who knows what a night in Ramadan may hold in store?”
“Don’t believe her!” I cried, deeply agitated. “This is nothing but a plot to get you out of the way. Fly to the monastery of your brotherhood, where none will dare to raise a hand against you.”
Giulia stamped and her eyes shot lightnings of rage as she screamed, “Hold your tongue, Michael! You have nothing to say in this matter.”
Mustafa ben-Nakir said, “Though it should mean death, yet she is and must ever be the only woman in the world for me. Perhaps it is a plot, but when she has heard what I have to say she may change her mind. Ah, Michael! I should be mad not to take the opportunity so freely offered. An hour or so ago I was ready to overturn the Empire-nay, the world-only to touch her. If I must die I will do so gladly, once I have dispelled the illusion that the unattainable is worth striving for.”
