The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  “It will be six years come this Bayram, sir,” the boy replied, brief and low.

  “Which makes you . . . your age?”

  “Seventeen years old, sire.”

  “And you began to ride here in the Princes School?”

  “No, sire. My mother taught me to ride. She had access to the Gonzaga stud in Mantova.”

  “They used to buy horses from me when Gonzaga was alive. I don’t recall his name,” the Sultan remarked almost as a normal person might in an ordinary conversation.

  Which emboldened Danilo to reply, “That would be Marchese Francesco. His wife was my mother’s patroness.”

  At this point a discreet cough from the Grand Vizier stopped him. Apparently pages were not expected to jog the memories of sultans. But Danilo’s rebellious streak propeled him forward in spite of the warning cough.

  “Please allow me to add, sire, that from my earliest days in the Harem School I received the most excellent training at the hands of Agon Effendi. He was my mentor.”

  He regretted the word as it slipped out. And, sure enough, it was picked up immediately by the Grand Vizier. “You name an Albanian riding master as your mentor and not your Sultan?”

  If you ever need me . . . The boy raised his head and looked straight up. Send me the words, Mother . . .

  “Yes, sire, the riding master is my mentor. But the Sultan is my benefactor from whom all my blessings flow.”

  Unable to resist the temptation, he snuck a peek at the two faces above him: on the face of the Greek, a frown of irritation; on the face of the Sultan, the merest suggestion of a smile. Saved.

  “You have served us well today, young man,” he heard the Sultan say. “We are expecting even more of you in the days to come. Remember. I have my eye on you.”

  Danilo felt a tug on his shoulder. The interview was over.

  “What is wrong with you, del Medigo? Did I not warn you not to talk? Did you not hear me?” Oxy boomed out as soon as they cleared the audience chamber.

  Before Danilo could apologize, one of his mates rose to his defense. “But he saved himself with his wit, Oxy,” his mate pointed out. Oxy was well-versed in the rules of the gerit, but he was not experienced in the ways of courts.

  There was little urging when Danilo refused an invitation to accompany his mates across the water to Galata for a celebration. As usual, they attributed his reluctance to his youth. “A little backward when it comes to the ladies” was the verdict. Besides, he had a good excuse. His father, too ill to attend the games, was waiting for him. And indeed, once out of the Grand Vizier’s palace — and glad to see the back of it — Danilo made his way quickly to the Doctor’s House, stopping only briefly at his dormitory to retrieve a thin silk packet nestled in the folds of his quilt. Inside: a cinnamon stick rolled in a torn sheet of copy paper, which he glanced at and tucked into his girdle for safekeeping. In his absence, Narcissus, that most unlikely of Cupid’s messengers, had paid him a visit.

  He arrived at the Doctor’s House to find his father enjoying a late-afternoon nap. Most unusual. The doctor must really be ill to indulge himself in a daytime respite. In emulation of the revered Jewish scholar Maimonides, Judah del Medigo lived by the dictum that the two worst temptations in life were an overindulgence in melons and sleeping in the daytime.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb his father, Danilo approached the bed and laid his hand on the invalid’s brow. No fever. A good sign. But there was a grayish tinge to the doctor’s flesh that the boy found alarming. A pinkish flush, he had learned, was an important indicator of good health. A yellow tinge announced liver problems. And a grayish pallor foretold . . . Fortunately, at that moment Judah woke up, cheerful, rested, and eager to hear the details of the afternoon’s doings. An altogether far cry from the dismal prognosis his complexion seemed to indicate.

  Furthermore, it was clear that, in spite of himself, the doctor was pleased with his son’s report. How could a father not feel pride in a son who had distinguished himself so brilliantly in front of the whole city and the court? True, Judah would have been more pleased if his son had gained distinction in a learned disputa rather than on a horse. Nonetheless, he was wise enough to know that to achieve mastery — to become the best in any endeavor — required perseverance, stamina, and daring. Those pagan virtues that, as a Platonist, Judah most admired.

  The boy had done him proud today. No doubt of it. Which Judah, being Judah, found difficult to express directly. Instead, he said, “Your mother would have been proud of you.” For kindness, financial aid, and medical advice, the doctor could always be counted on. For praise, never.

  Very briefly, Danilo considered telling his father about the soft white hand that had appeared from heaven to lift him out of the dust of the playing field. But, almost immediately, he thought better of it. Instead, he retreated to safer ground.

  “It was Bucephalus who saved me from disaster.” A true statement and infinitely less inflammatory than a rescue by the hand of his dead mother. “And since it was you who cured Bucephalus, I owe much of my success today to you, Papa.”

  “I did nothing.” Having been given the credit, Judah could afford to return it. “It was your skill and your courage that won you the gold.” He indicated the bulging purse that Danilo has brought to show him. “And apparently your quick thinking brought a smile to the face of our Sultan. No mean feat.” He paused. “It is not often that the Grand Vizier is bested in a battle of wits.”

  “I just repeated what Oxy had told me,” the boy reported in truth, if not quite the whole truth.

  “It’s exactly the kind of riposte your mother would have come up with,” Judah went on. “She could be quite the courtier when she chose to. Unlike me who always thinks of the perfect retort after I’m back home in bed. But I won’t pretend not to be pleased that you bested the Greek. He has given me more than one serious headache since I displaced his Greek compatriot as Chief Body Physician. Besides, he is no friend to our people. What impression did he give you?”

  Never before in the boy’s recollection had his father solicited his opinion of anything or anybody. He hesitated for some moments before he decided to risk a bold reply.

  “I think that this Greek is riding for a fall,” he answered.

  “Hmm.” Judah stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You know, of course, that the Sultan befriended this Greek slave when they were boys. They have shared food, a tent, even a bed. And, to give the devil his due, Ibrahim is a superb negotiator and a pretty fair general. He is the one who subdued Egypt for us. Peacefully. What makes you think he is about to fall from favor?”

  “The palace, sir.”

  “The Grand Vizier’s palace? What about it? I’ve never been in the place, you know. I am no favorite of Ibrahim Pasha’s.”

  “Nor had I seen it until today, sir.”

  “And now that you have?”

  “For one thing, it has a fireplace in every room. Not even the Colonna’s palace in Rome has a fireplace in every room.”

  Judah nodded. The boy had a point. “What else?”

  “The size of the rooms. The grandeur. His Great Hall dwarfs the Sultan’s audience room. In fact, the entire place makes Topkapi seem small and insignificant.”

  “So?”

  Go ahead, Danilo told himself. The worst that can happen is that he’ll think you a fool.

  “If I were the Sultan,” he began slowly, “and one of my men showed me up like that . . .” He paused, then finished in a rush, “I would have his head from his shoulders.”

  “Bravo!” The doctor reached up to clap his son on the back. “An excellent show of deductive logic.”

  This was as close as the doctor would ever come to bestowing unequivocal approval on his son, and Danilo came away from the visit feeling as good as he had ever felt after a conversation with his father. He fairly bounced out of the bedroom, ha
ving assured Judah that no, he was not planning to celebrate with his teammates in Galata but was on his way to pay an evening visit to Bucephalus, from whom he did feel, in his heart, that all his blessings flowed. (Which brought another smile to his father’s face.) And by the way, he asked casually, could he stop in his father’s kitchen and take away some sugar for the horse? And oh, yes, might he pick up some liniment in the doctor’s apothecary? To all of which the doctor gave his ready assent.

  True to his word, Danilo did pick up a cup of sugar on his way to the stables. What he had neglected to include in the details of his evening itinerary was that, while in the pharmacy, he would pour into a vial several drops of a completely harmless but powerful soporific, which the doctor guaranteed would give his patients a long night of dreamless sleep.

  21

  THE VALIDE’S BEDTIME

  The cart so reluctantly summoned by Hürrem to carry Princess Saida back to her grandmother’s suite in the harem was a far cry from the luxurious chariot that had brought them to Topkapi Palace. With but a single nag to pull it, shielded from the crowd by only a thin scrim of fabric strung carelessly over what seemed to be a discarded clothesline, it was a vehicle fit for a servant, not a princess. But the cart did bounce along at a brisk pace and brought Saida to the gates of the Old Palace before the muezzin began his final prayer call of the day, allowing her a few moments to shed her head scarves, unlace her tight little boots, and confer briefly with Narcissus before joining her grandmother for evening prayers.

  Ordinarily, this was a time of day Saida cherished. Kneeling under the watchful eye of both her earthly protector and her heavenly one, she felt at these times as if no bad thing could ever happen to her. But today everything was moving too fast. And when Narcissus answered her call, she addressed him in a curt tone quite foreign to her accustomed civility. No greeting. No smile.

  “Has the message been delivered?” she demanded.

  “Yes.” If she chose to play the stern mistress, he would be the cowed slave.

  “And the caique, is it arranged?”

  “Unfortunately, Princess” — he paused just long enough to make her nervous — “it will only be available for four hours. That is not enough time to travel back and forth to Princes’ Islands of course. But plenty of time” — he added what Saida suspected was a slight leer — “more than enough time for a moonlit cruise on the Bosphorus.”

  “Then tonight we will simply have to traipse up and down the Bosphorus,” she conceded briskly. “But make certain that the compartment is completely shielded.”

  “The craft available is one of the Sultan’s favorite caiques, lady. For informal outings.” Did Narcissus wink or did she imagine it? “Only four oarsmen, but well shielded from prying eyes. As secure as the throne of the empire.”

  “Better be,” was her curt rejoinder. “Remember, if anything goes wrong, it’s your head on a pike as well as mine.”

  “I never forget it, lady,” he replied, with no suspicion of irony.

  As usual, the princess and her grandmother were served a small meal in the Valide’s bedroom after evening prayers. Always a loaf of the very white and savory bread made of wheat from Bithynia but grown on the Sultan’s own ground, a pilaf of Egyptian rice, a quantity of preserves, some pickled meats (basturma being one of the Valide’s favorites), sherbets, of course, and a yogurt drink with clotted cream and melons, which the Valide could never get enough of.

  After the meal came the brushing of the Valide’s striking red hair. When her son, Suleiman, was born, the lady swore she would go to her grave with the same flowing red locks that had so fascinated her child’s father. It was a goal she had so far managed to achieve with a special dye concocted by the Jewish bundle-woman, a formula recently improved upon by the Second Kadin. With this expert assistance, the Lady Hafsa managed to appear several years younger than her age. But, sadly, no amount of henna could arrest the failing of her heart.

  “I am winding down like one of those windup clocks they make in Europe, ready to close my eyes before sundown,” she told Saida when they had finished their meal

  It was hardly an exaggeration since she had already unknowingly imbibed her first cup of doctored tea, a beverage guaranteed to put anyone who consumed it to sleep by nightfall and keep that person asleep until daybreak.

  In Saida’s view, the soporific was a harmless deception, designed to protect her grandmother’s heart from the shock she would get were she to awaken in the night to discover that her precious grandchild was missing.

  A moonlit cruise on the gentle waves of the Bosphorus occupied the same role in the Istanbul imagination that a moonlit carriage ride around the pyramids played for the denizens of Cairo, carrying with it the suggestion of stolen kisses, forbidden liaisons, intrigue, seduction, and a world well lost for love. That one short span of water was the setting of countless tales of adventure — and misadventure — told and retold during the long, languorous days in the harem. But when Saida stole a glance at the night sky through the small round window of her grandmother’s bedroom, there was no moon to be seen. No stars either. No moonlit cruise tonight. She sighed. But, within moments, she was reminding herself that, although not as fabulous as moonlight, darkness was a more valuable asset to those who wished to avoid being recognized. Having thus put a happier face on it, she turned her attention to the task at hand — the evening recitation.

  “What shall we read tonight?” she asked her grandmother, hoping for some familiar text that she could read, quite literally, with her eyes shut. But no.

  “No reading tonight,” the Valide said firmly. “Tonight you shall tell me of your outing with the Second Kadin. Every detail. I want to know everything.” A request which implied an hour — perhaps more if the lady’s lively curiosity kept her alert — of careful editing as the girl made her way through the ups and downs of the day’s events.

  It was not too onerous a task for someone with a good memory, and the princess was able to construct an edited narrative on the spot. But when she came to the moment when the gerit teams galloped to their stations on either side of the hippodrome, she suffered an acute failure of nerve. Could she trust herself to relive those agonizing moments when Danilo lay motionless on the ground while the opposing team galloped forward to trample him into the dust?

  Desperate to find an alternative subject, she pounced on the Second Kadin. “The Lady Hürrem seemed unusually chimerical today.” It was a word she had heard her grandmother use when speaking of Hürrem.

  “How so?”

  “Well, this morning, having dined with my father last night, she told me she was the happiest woman in the world. But this afternoon at the gerit she seemed very sad. She even said she wished she could return here to the harem with me. To the comfort of home, was how she put it.”

  “Did she say what was troubling her?” the Valide inquired with ill-disguised curiosity.

  “Yes. In fact, I remember her exact words. They seemed so strange.”

  “Strange? In what way?”

  “She said, ‘I feel my shame today.’”

  “What has she to be ashamed of?”

  “It started when we first arrived at the Grand Vizier’s palace and were sitting on the balcony. There were a lot of women, perhaps half a dozen of the harem girls that my father has married off. Seeing them all married upset Lady Hürrem in some way. But she was the one who put him up to it, wasn’t she?” asked the girl.

  “Yes, she told me that she loved him so much she couldn’t bear to share him with anyone,” the Valide replied. “I wondered at the wisdom of going so far against tradition, but it certainly took a grave responsibility off my old shoulders. Those girls were a handful, always angling to get into my son’s bed and keeping the others out. Do I speak too plainly, my dear?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But we must be generous to the Second Kadin.” The Valide
resumed her all-wise, all-kindly manner. “Life has been difficult for her, batted back and forth like a shuttlecock between those girls and Rose of Spring. That rose is not without her thorns, you know.”

  “But, Grandmother, my father ignores Rose of Spring completely and does everything Hürrem wishes. She was the one who wanted all the odalisques gone from the harem and who urged him to marry them off. And then she complains that the girls she got rid of are free women and she is a slave.”

  “She suffers,” the Valide answered. “You are too young to understand suffering. And, Allah willing, you never will.”

  “I never hear you complaining, Grandmama. And you too were a slave as long as my blessed grandfather Selim was alive. Did you suffer from it?”

  It was an impertinent question, and once she had asked it Saida lowered her head awaiting a rebuke.

  But no remonstrance was forthcoming. Instead, Lady Hafsa took her time in answering, rearranging the pillows to prop up her back and stretching her long neck to its height. Then, full of dignity, she answered, “I was the mother of the first prince of the realm, with every expectation of becoming the Valide Sultan when my son became Sultan. As long as Rose’s son Mustafa lives, Hürrem will only be the Second Kadin.” The way she spoke the words made them sound like a prophecy of doom. “Now then” — she waved her hands in the direction of the teapot — “it is time for my last cup of tea. I am tired.”

  But Saida was unwilling to relinquish the brief span of intimacy. Such moments with her grandmother were rare. So, as she poured the tea into the chalcedony goblet, she reported, “She wants to move her household to Topkapi.”

  “She does?” The Valide did not appear to be even slightly concerned.

  “So what is to become of us?”

  “Why, nothing.” She felt a reassuring touch on her arm. “We will live here in the Old Palace, in my son’s harem, as we always have,” her grandmother announced with all the authority of a royal edict. “Now, my tea.” Then she added, “You have a special way of brewing, child. I always sleep so well when you prepare my evening cup for me.”