by Victor Foia
“I thank Hekim Yakup for his offer,” Vlad said, “but there is no need for the operation. The doctor can ascertain that immediately.”
For an instant a stunned silence replaced the hubbub in the hall. Then the noise resumed, this time peppered with expressions of disbelief.
Mehmed clasped his hands, flushed, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Are you saying the apprentice is wrong?”
“Yes and no,” Vlad said with a chuckle, unable to resist the temptation to sow further confusion.
He sauntered to a nearby screen that served to conceal the hall servants in attendance and the refreshments being readied for the afternoon snack. Yakup followed him behind the screen and ordered the servants to leave. When Vlad hitched up the front of his robe and unfastened his loincloth, Yakup gave a soft whistle. “Who’s butchered you like this?”
“I did it myself.”
Yakup shook his head and gave Vlad a scolding look. “That wasn’t smart. I need to cauterize you right away to prevent the corruption of the flesh. I’ll also—”
“So you aren’t a munāfiq?” Mehmed exclaimed. “What made you do it?”
“—give you a tree moss wrap to reduce chafing,” Yakup said, his tone betraying the professional’s annoyance at being interrupted.
Vlad rose on tiptoes and made eye contact with Mehmed over the screen top. “I saw no gain in postponing my circumcision until a new sünnetçi could be found. Besides, I’d promised Gruya we’d go through this formality together.”
“He did it to show off,” Hamza shouted.
“Impossible,” Zaganos growled, derisive. “Nobody can circumcise himself.”
“There is a documented precedent,” Vlad heard Gürani say. “Prophet İbrahim, may Allah grant him peace, circumcised himself with an adze when he’d passed the age of eighty.”
The old men at the back of the hall hastened to acknowledge İbrahim’s precedent with eager exclamations.
“This giaour will do anything to have a laugh at our expense,” Zaganos hissed. For once his frustration seemed to exceed his hatred for Vlad.
In the silence that followed, Vlad stepped out from behind the screen and sustained Zaganos’s malicious stare, unperturbed.
When Mehmed rushed forward and took Vlad in his arms, Zaganos stormed out of the hall.
Over the following two weeks Gruya failed repeatedly to establish a connection for their escape. The reason was always the same: caravan masters demanded money.
“Be they Saxons, Italians, or Hungarians, they all are asking for silver,” Gruya said. “And a lot of it.”
“You mean our willingness to crew for them without pay isn’t attractive enough?” Vlad said.
“When they hear we have no papers, they guess we’re runaways,” Gruya said. “Hence the greed of the kuffār.” Since becoming nominally a Muslim, he delighted in calling Christians who displeased him kuffār, infidels. He’d even taken the trouble to learn the plural of the Arabic word. “‘We’ve got to bribe the kadı to add you to our manifest,’ they whine, ‘and that’s costly.’”
Lash, who’d moved into Vlad’s chamber to attend to his daily needs, produced a purse with a handful of coins. “We still have this, Master,” he said, and handed the purse to Vlad. “Not enough, for sure, but it’s all that’s left from …”
Vlad had noticed that whenever the subject of money came up, Lash acted uneasy. The poor man’s afraid I’ll ask him how much silver Gruya wasted on the way down to Bursa.
“I didn’t know we had any money left,” Gruya said, lighting up. “I could use a coin or two just now. Remember the woman I was telling you about? The one with a walnut cracker for—”
“Go back to town and keep trying to find someone who’d help us for free,” Vlad said. “But stay away from Wallachians. If they realize who we are they’re apt to turn us in.”
When another week passed and still no escape prospect materialized, Vlad’s spirits sank. He had to admit his idea of getting away overland was unworkable for want of money. When Gruya stopped reporting his failures, Vlad let the matter drop without comment.
Soon he began to feel the time was rushing on with the speed of a spring torrent. The five daily prayers seemed to take place at shorter and shorter intervals. And the Friday khutbahs at Ulu Camii succeeded each other as if only a day or two apart. Hours melded into days, days into weeks; he dreaded waking up in the morning for fear he’d discover the day of his departure for Amasya had snuck up on him.
Mehmed took notice of Vlad’s depression and insisted they exercise their horses together, as an antidote. But though Samur’s touch and odor invigorated Vlad for a few moments, the knowledge he’d soon have to leave her behind added to his malaise.
Even the frequent lectures he attended with Mehmed failed to bring Vlad any pleasure. New revelations in geography, history, and mathematics barely registered with him, though he sat upright at his writing desk and dutifully took notes. The lectures on Ottoman war tactics, which he would’ve done anything to attend months before, now served only to underline the indomitable might of this empire that held him in its pitiless clutch.
Tirendaz’s circumcision gift to Vlad was a new bow of exquisite workmanship. But when Vlad attempted to shoot with it, he found it near impossible to attain a full draw.
“This is a war bow that requires much practice to draw properly,” Tirendaz said. Then he offered to teach Vlad the art of Ottoman archery. “It will take your mind off your worries. Besides, practicing with the bow is better than worshiping without conviction.”
“What makes you say that, Tirendaz Agha?” Vlad said, alarmed. Is my lack of faith that transparent?
Tirendaz laughed. “Oh, it’s not something I’ve come up with. It’s what the Prophet, may Allah raise his rank, was fond of saying.”
Vlad followed the intensive regimen proposed by his instructor. One hour of target practice at the okmeidan every morning; one hour of lifting weights every evening; and five hundred pulls of a training bow every night. He didn’t undertake these exercises in the hope of becoming a kemankeş, professional archer. That, Tirendaz pointed out, would take years of training. He did it to conquer through physical exhaustion a stubborn insomnia that left too much room for his morbid thoughts. For time, which sped inexorably with the sun, crawled like a snake on frozen ground during the night.
One solitary ray of light that penetrated the darkness closing in on him was the memory of Donatella. He summoned it when sleep refused to come, by holding her kerchief to his lips. That longing look she gave him on the wall-walk outside Ca’ Loredano was her promise she too would be thinking about him.
Then in December, even that light went out.
19
THE EARRING
November 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Omar couldn’t tell long he stood tethered to the pillar by the spike that had pierced his earlobe. At one point the lamp went out and he felt a deep lassitude creeping up on him. I mustn’t sleep, he told himself, fearing his knees would give in and cause his ear to tear free of the spike. It wasn’t the pain that concerned him, for he had endured more severe torments when wounded in skirmishes with the infidels. He believed this pinning to the pillar was a test he couldn’t fail if he wanted to be accepted as a murīd by Sheik al-Masudi.
In the dark his eyes burned from the smoke the dead lamp released. He shut them for a bit of relief and decided to reflect. But how does a dervish go about reflecting? Is he given a theme by his murshid? He realized how little he knew of the dervish’s spiritual life. But that didn’t diminish his longing to become one of them and to seek haqīqah. This test was the first step on his tariqa, and he was determined to make it a fruitful one.
He figured he’d kept his eyes shut for only a few moments. Yet, when he reopened them the lamp was burning again. He was certain he hadn’t slept. And because no one could have come into the room without his realizing it, he concluded the lighting of the lamp was a sign from Allah.
; When the lamp went out again, he panicked. His strength had ebbed so much he was certain that if he dozed he’d collapse. He struggled to stay awake by summoning his old hatred for the killers of his brothers. I shall find and skin you alive, Insha’Allāh, he repeated ceaselessly, like a religious incantation.
Then the cell was bathed in light again, and Jalāl was standing in front of him, a bolt cutter in hand.
“You’ve endured your condition for three days and three nights,” Jalāl said without betraying either surprise or admiration. “Now you must decide.”
He stepped behind Omar and snipped off the head of the spike.
Omar’s knees buckled and he crumpled onto the floor, throat parched, lips cracked. As slumber swept over him like a rising tide, he felt happier than he’d ever been. When he awoke lying on his cot, he found a bowl of warm gruel and a pitcher of water on a stool next to him.
“Sheik al-Masudi sends you his greetings,” Jalāl said when he entered the cell an hour later. “He finds your stamina and determination worthy of a murīd at his tekke.”
Omar’s heart filled with gratitude, and that moment he would’ve done anything the sheik commanded him. He wanted to stand, but his limbs disobeyed him.
“You may rest a while,” Jalāl said. “When you regain your strength we shall talk.”
“You said I must decide, dede Jalāl,” Omar said, uncertain whether it was proper for him bring up that subject. “What decision—?”
“Ah, yes.” Jalāl sat on the edge the cot. He felt the lobe of Omar’s injured ear and nodded, pleased. “Your ear’s ready for the menguş, the earring that will set you apart from most dervishes. But only you may decide if you’ll wear it or not.”
Omar would’ve liked to know what the earring represented, but decided it wasn’t worthy of a good murīd to display curiosity. “I’ll wear the menguş whatever its significance,” he said.
“Then you’re willing to take the oath of celibacy?” Jalāl said.
Omar hadn’t anticipated the possibility of forgoing sexual intercourse for the remainder of his life. Many of the dervishes he knew had families. And on campaigns to Dar al-Harb dervishes indulged in raping war prisoners just as ordinary soldiers did. He felt the hole in his earlobe burn as if stretched with a hot awl.
Jalāl must’ve noticed Omar’s hesitation, for he added with urgency, “Sheik al-Masudi said you’d take the oath. He sees far beyond what ordinary mortals see.”
The sheik’s confidence in him shattered Omar’s inchoate reluctance and turned the burning in his ear into a pleasant glow. He sees in me more than I see myself.
Jalāl produced a wooden casket containing an iron earring in the shape of a horseshoe.
“Cut from the horseshoe of Ali’s mare seven hundred years ago,” he said. “Sheik al-Masudi brought it from Mecca on his third hajj.”
Ali, the first of the Twelve Imams, the most venerated martyr in Shia Islam, and Prophet Mohammed’s son-in-law. To think Omar could own an object so closely related to Ali left him lightheaded. Slowly, he felt his entire body becoming suffused with love for the sheik and reverence for Ali.
“I swear by Allah,” he said, “my body shall never again touch with carnal desire that of a woman.”
Jalāl looked at him, purse-lipped and expectant.
“Or a man,” Omar added.
Jalāl attached the earring to Omar’s ear.
“This is a gift worthy of a king,” Jalāl said. “Your gift to the sheik mustn’t be of lesser value.”
You must know I possess nothing, Omar thought. What gift could I give anyone?
He concluded the old man’s reference to a gift had to be a metaphor, so he decided not to comment on it.
“When will I discover haqīqah, dede Jalāl?” Omar said.
The old man smiled and patted Omar’s hand. He must’ve seen many impatient murīds in his long life. “Haqīqah is like the core of an onion,” he said. “It’s protected by many layers that must be peeled off one at a time. To reveal the truth to a murīd, before he’s ready, is a grave sin.”
“Teach me how to get ready, dede Jalāl,” Omar said.
Jalāl reflected for a few minutes with eyes turned into slits, and Omar feared his eagerness had offended his murshid.
“A man who seeks the Ultimate Truth must be born twice,” Jalāl finally said. “First time from his mother, the second from his murshid.”
“I’m ready for my second birth,” Omar said with explosive eagerness.
Jalāl raised his right palm in a gesture that said, slow down. “The child surrenders his body to his mother in birth, the man surrenders his soul to his murshid in rebirth.”
“My will is yours,” Omar said.
“Rebirth will take a long time, but you’ll begin your new life tonight through your recitations. Call out the ninety-nine names of Allah ninety-nine times before the first prayer of the day, and again as many times after the last. Do this until my next visit.”
That night, Omar removed his earring and placed it on the Qur’an stand. Then he stood by the pillar and forced his right earlobe over the stub of the iron spike Jalāl had left embedded in the post. He did his recitation in that posture, depriving himself of the comfort that swaying might have brought him. He repeated the recitation in the morning.
In the daytime he sought out the most menial jobs in the tekke and performed them with patient humility. He ate scraps left in the kitchen pots he scoured, and drank rainwater from a barrel in the yard. When he encountered other murīds, he lowered his head and avoided eye contact.
He’d been engaged in this routine two weeks when Jalāl came and gave him a new recitation.
“The victories of jihād are few nowadays,” Jalāl said, after he installed himself in front of Omar’s Qur’an stand. “What remains today in al-Andalus from the land conquered by the believers seven hundred years ago? The unbelievers’ so-called reconquista, reconquering, has left only a toehold for Dar al-Islam in the Iberian Peninsula. Will that happen to the Ottoman Empire in Rumelia?”
He opened the Qur’an and leafed through it with sure fingers.
“You will recite sūrah 8, ayat 15 and 16, three hundred times in the morning and three hundred times at night.” He cleared his throat then intoned, “‘O you, who believe! When you meet unbelievers marching for war, turn not your backs to them. And whoever shall turn his back to them on that day, then he, indeed, becomes deserving of Allah’s wrath.’”
Jalāl looked up and seemed satisfied with Omar’s concentration.
“Between recitations, meditate on the question, ‘Who are the real enemies of jihād?’ It’s Sheik al-Masudi’s question, and he’s eager to hear the answer from your own lips.”
Omar was overjoyed that answering such an easy question was all it took to be brought again into the presence of the saint, and receive his revitalizing baraka. But he fretted over forfeiting that privilege for miscounting his recitations.
“Sometimes, when I’m tired,” he said, “I lose count.”
Jalāl nodded with understanding. “That’s normal, as your mind’s trying to straddle two worlds. The world of the senses and the world of the heart. Only when you can lose yourself entirely in the latter will you be able to count without counting. Until then just resume the lost count from the beginning.”
Omar wondered whether he should share his next concern with the old man. What if Jalāl thought he was losing his mind?
Jalāl seemed to guess Omar’s struggle. “You mustn’t hide anything from me,” he said in a gentle tone that assuaged Omar’s apprehension.
“Sometimes I hear a voice inside my head.”
Jalāl perked up. “Ah, that’s excellent. Sheik al-Masudi will welcome the news of your remarkable progress.”
20
TIBI LAUS ET GLORIA
December 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Vlad made arrangements for Gruya to sleep in his chamber instead of bunking with the palace staff. But following his rec
overy from the circumcision, Gruya never spent the night with Vlad and showed up infrequently in the daytime. Despite being a Muslim now, he’d managed to find food, shelter, and more in Bursa’s Christian Quarter. It was the “more” that had sunk its hook the deepest into Gruya’s hide.
Only once did Vlad question his vagrancies.
Gruya gave him a hurt look. “After you sold my soul to the Shaytan, what do you care how I spend my nights?”
When Gruya did check in with Vlad it was only to ask for money. Vlad would let him have the meager weekly allowance he received from the palace, and Gruya would disappear for another week.
The first time this happened, Vlad chided him. “I thought you’d come with me to ride horses and do some swordplay. We’re getting rusty, you and I.”
“You obviously have no idea what it takes to keep a widow happy,” Gruya said, with an earnestness that amused Vlad. “Split firewood, fetch water, patch the roof … I’ve never worked this hard in my life. And there are so damn many widows in this town: Gypsies, Armenians, Bulgarians, Greeks; young, old, fat, skinny. I’ll take you on a tour one day to see for yourself.”
“And then you have to keep their bed warm too,” Vlad said, a little envious.
So when Gruya showed up at the palace only two days after collecting his money, Vlad knew something unusual must’ve happened. He anticipated a tale of jealous women fighting over Gruya’s services. “Run into a spot of widow-trouble, have you?”
“No trouble for me,” Gruya said, “but there might be some brewing for you. A strange character arrived in Bursa a week ago, and has been asking people all around town about you.”
Vlad jumped to his feet and his pulse quickened. Father has sent someone to find us. “Why did you wait so long to tell me?” He spoke louder than needed.
Gruya shrugged. “I wanted to see what he was up to; whether he had any cronies.”
“But what if he’s Father’s man?” Vlad said, vexed Gruya would risk their chance of being rescued. “He could’ve given up and returned home.”
“If he were sent by the king, he’d speak Wallachian, Hungarian, or German. I called him a sheep fucker in those languages, and he didn’t react. But he’s fluent in Turkish and Greek.”
