Galata. Very well for them. But he was a member of the Sultan’s first team. Twenty-four hours from now, he would be riding into the oval of the hippodrome as thousands cheered. His coaches had placed their faith in him. His teammates depended on him.
Inshallah , he repeated aloud, trying to evoke in himself some sense of being in the hands of a higher power. But the words that seemed to bolster up his teammates didn’t work for him. His god did not interfere in horse races. If he did well in tomorrow’s gerit , it would not be because Allah had willed it but because he, Danilo del Medigo, had proven himself worthy. This night had been a mistake. He ought to have spent it resting his mind and body. But it was not in his nature to regret things done that could not be undone. What he needed now was a day to restore his tired muscles and clear his mind of any impediment that might cloud his judgment on the field. Sleep.
He was about to fall on his pallet fully clothed when he caught sight of a sheet of vellum pinned to the quilt, hand-written and stamped with the Sultan’s tugra. It was a firman entitling the bearer to a place in Divan Square, where a select group of courtiers would gather that afternoon to welcome the Padishah home from his Austrian wars. An invitation from the Sultan was tantamount to a summons. But mostly the boy was thinking of his father, who would be searching the crowd eagerly for the sight of him. He must be there, behind the velvet rope, when his father rode by in Suleiman’s train. There would be no long day of rest for him. Better sleep fast , he told himself as he closed his weary eyes.
8
ON THE EVE
ISTANBUL
OCTOBER 23, 1532
Every year on an April day after Ramadan, the vast conglomeration of men, animals, weapons, and baggage trains that constitute the Ottoman war machine gathered in a field north of Istanbul. They came together, the British consul reported to his masters, as though they had been invited to a wedding. War was a season to them, he observed, like winter.
The previous spring, on a day sanctioned by the court astrologer as most auspicious, the Ottoman army led by the Sultan had set off on campaign to Austria. Their goal: plunder territory to add to an expanding empire that had already yielded them more land than the Romans controlled at the height of their power. Today, after a long, hard campaign that took him halfway across Europe to the gates of Vienna, Suleiman the Magnificent was coming home.
To prepare the crowds gathered on the streets of Istanbul to greet him, heralds had spent the evening trumpeting news of his capture of the Austrian town of Guns on the return journey. No one dared to question how it was that the Sultan failed to take Vienna and was forced by the onset of winter to raise his siege of the Austrian capital and return home. That detail of the campaign was not spoken of. Not in his palace. Not in the streets. Not even in that breeding ground of gossip and rumor, the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul. What would be celebrated today was that, once again, the campaign season had ended in a glorious victory for their Padishah, Defender of Islam and the Shadow of God on Earth. The Austrian stronghold of Guns had been captured. No mention of Vienna.
The Padishah’s welcome promised to be tumultuous. The Turks were proud of their victorious sultans. And the sultans in their turn took care to provide a celebration, lasting at least a week, of parades and games and music and dancing and free food.
The heralds had not yet announced the exact hour of the Sultan’s arrival on the streets of the city from his staging area across the Bosphorus. But, in spite of strenuous efforts to keep it secret, news of his imminent appearance had somehow filtered across the waterway, floated down into the Grand Bazaar, and was rapidly spreading through the streets of Istanbul.
“Have you heard? The Padishah will arrive today.”
“They say he has already decamped at
Inshallah , he repeated aloud, trying to evoke in himself some sense of being in the hands of a higher power. But the words that seemed to bolster up his teammates didn’t work for him. His god did not interfere in horse races. If he did well in tomorrow’s gerit , it would not be because Allah had willed it but because he, Danilo del Medigo, had proven himself worthy. This night had been a mistake. He ought to have spent it resting his mind and body. But it was not in his nature to regret things done that could not be undone. What he needed now was a day to restore his tired muscles and clear his mind of any impediment that might cloud his judgment on the field. Sleep.
He was about to fall on his pallet fully clothed when he caught sight of a sheet of vellum pinned to the quilt, hand-written and stamped with the Sultan’s tugra. It was a firman entitling the bearer to a place in Divan Square, where a select group of courtiers would gather that afternoon to welcome the Padishah home from his Austrian wars. An invitation from the Sultan was tantamount to a summons. But mostly the boy was thinking of his father, who would be searching the crowd eagerly for the sight of him. He must be there, behind the velvet rope, when his father rode by in Suleiman’s train. There would be no long day of rest for him. Better sleep fast , he told himself as he closed his weary eyes.
8
ON THE EVE
ISTANBUL
OCTOBER 23, 1532
Every year on an April day after Ramadan, the vast conglomeration of men, animals, weapons, and baggage trains that constitute the Ottoman war machine gathered in a field north of Istanbul. They came together, the British consul reported to his masters, as though they had been invited to a wedding. War was a season to them, he observed, like winter.
The previous spring, on a day sanctioned by the court astrologer as most auspicious, the Ottoman army led by the Sultan had set off on campaign to Austria. Their goal: plunder territory to add to an expanding empire that had already yielded them more land than the Romans controlled at the height of their power. Today, after a long, hard campaign that took him halfway across Europe to the gates of Vienna, Suleiman the Magnificent was coming home.
To prepare the crowds gathered on the streets of Istanbul to greet him, heralds had spent the evening trumpeting news of his capture of the Austrian town of Guns on the return journey. No one dared to question how it was that the Sultan failed to take Vienna and was forced by the onset of winter to raise his siege of the Austrian capital and return home. That detail of the campaign was not spoken of. Not in his palace. Not in the streets. Not even in that breeding ground of gossip and rumor, the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul. What would be celebrated today was that, once again, the campaign season had ended in a glorious victory for their Padishah, Defender of Islam and the Shadow of God on Earth. The Austrian stronghold of Guns had been captured. No mention of Vienna.
The Padishah’s welcome promised to be tumultuous. The Turks were proud of their victorious sultans. And the sultans in their turn took care to provide a celebration, lasting at least a week, of parades and games and music and dancing and free food.
The heralds had not yet announced the exact hour of the Sultan’s arrival on the streets of the city from his staging area across the Bosphorus. But, in spite of strenuous efforts to keep it secret, news of his imminent appearance had somehow filtered across the waterway, floated down into the Grand Bazaar, and was rapidly spreading through the streets of Istanbul.
“Have you heard? The Padishah will arrive today.”
“They say he has already decamped at
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