I imagined that Nasi would send the proof of Ashkenazi’s betrayal to the Sultan in person. He didn’t, in fact. He knew he held the winning cards, but he also knew how to play them. He went not to the Sultan but instead to the Grand Vizier. He brought Sokollu proof of his personal secretary’s betrayal, having first taken the precaution of making the contents of the documents public. Thus he held Sokollu to his responsibilities, and linked him to his own conniving. I couldn’t say if it was a flash of genius or a premeditated move, but it certainly put the Grand Vizier in great difficulty.
The events of the following week marked the victory of Nasi and the decisive step toward war. Sokollu couldn’t keep Ashkenazi out of prison and had to use all his influence to save the Venetian doctor from the gallows. By so doing, he reinforced suspicions that he too had an agreement with La Serenissima. Selim was obliged to demonstrate his disapproval of that same Grand Vizier, and the advocates of war within the Divan were given a free hand to proceed with military operations against Cyprus.
Throughout this time, Nasi appeared strangely calm. Only his eyes gave away his excitement, his awareness that his plan was coming to fruition, one step at a time.
So it was that one day in early summer we all found ourselves in the big Roman hippodrome, which the Turks called Atmeydani, watching the Ottoman war machine get moving, to the sound of horns and drums.
29
The Sipahi noblemen passed in serried ranks, their horses’ steps perfectly synchronized, their lances pointed toward the sky, a forest of glittering pines. On the arm of every horseman was a round shield, and carved quivers and short, curved bows hung from their saddles. The Sultan’s six cavalry divisions reminded everyone that the Turks had conquered their empire on horseback. They had galloped down from the steppes of Asia, passing through the Middle East with the violence of barbarians. The Sipahi represented the true heart of Ottoman power.
But they were not the backbone of the army.
The march of the janissaries was a triumph of red and green; the pennants and standards of the regiments fluttered in the morning breeze; the halberds and arquebuses shone in the sun, sabers and hatchets clattered in their belts.
Instead of weapons, one squadron carried big drums, pipes, trumpets, bells and cymbals. The sounds they made enfolded the soldiers and spurred them on, like a magic shield and an invisible force, capable of repelling projectiles, laying enemy forces low and reducing Cypriot fortresses to rubble.
A marvelous spectacle. Nonetheless, I recalled what Ismail had said to me during the crossing to Bandirma. The means change the end. How would the new kingdom of Cyprus resist that vast military apparatus? I thought of the army of the twelve tribes of Israel, the Ark of the Covenant, the seven ram’s horns that had brought down the walls of Jericho. More than two thousand years later, Yossef Nasi was entrusting the conquest of the Promised Land to the Turkish imperial army, not one of whose soldiers was Jewish.
My people’s only contribution to this war was the uniforms of the janissaries, sewn by the Sephardim of Salonika. The men who wore them were Slavs, Albanians, Bosnians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Hungarians. The Turks had torn them from their families as children and brought them to the imperial barracks to receive a training worthy of the ancient Spartans. They had converted to Islam, under the iron control of the bektashi, the spiritual instructors who were now going with them into battle. Forced to remain celibate, they formed a solid fraternity, like an order of knights devoted to a single father: the Sultan. They were his children and his slaves. For him alone they passed along to the rhythm of the music.
Selim-sani, Sovereign of the House of Osman, Sultan of Sultans, Khan of khans, Caliph of the faithful and successor of the Prophet. Guardian of the holy cities of Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, Caesar of the Roman Empire, Padisha of the three cities of Istanbul, Edirne and Bursa, and of the cities of Damascus and Cairo.
That was how the pages had announced Selim’s arrival, following the titles owed to him with a list of his possessions, from Abyssinia to Hungary, from Mesopotamia to Algiers.
How that pompous introduction clashed with his most famous nickname — Sarbosh, the Drunk — and the gossip about his dissolute habits. The subjects who acclaimed him from the benches of the hippodrome knew very well that Sultan Selim, the shadow of God on earth, had obtained those titles only thanks to the death of his brothers, Mustafa and Bayezid, eliminated during his father’s reign after years of plotting and lies.
With a gesture that looked like a blessing, Selim rose to his feet and saluted the people and the troops. Thousands of heads bowed and eyes stared up at him from below, because the Sultan’s face was a rare thing to see. I strained to see, too, wanting to know whether he was really repellent, swollen and light-headed with spirits, as some of the dispatches I had read in Venice said he was. But I was too far away, and the Great Turk immediately went and sat in the shade, on the covered balcony of the great palace of Ibrahim Pasha, which looked out over the ancient Byzantine arena.
The other windows of the building, some of them covered with grilles and shutters, were reserved for members of the imperial family. On either side of the façade, big wooden triple-tiered galleries rose. On one of these sat Yossef Nasi, and David Gomez beside him, a short distance from the dignitaries and the Grand Vizier. The European ambassadors were on the other side. I recognized the Polish voivode, seated beside the Seigneur de Grantrie.
I had taken my place with Donna Reyna and her entourage in a covered stand right in front of the Sultan’s balcony. That put me a few feet away from Dana, who accompanied her mistress, although my attempts to meet her eye had been unsuccessful.
“There’s our Don Yossef enjoying his triumph,” said Donna Reyna, by my side. “He has managed to make everyone submit, and exploited the Sultan’s thirst.”
I didn’t catch the phrase then, and went on watching the parade. Passing below the obelisk of Thutmosis at that moment were the Azabs, the ill-defined troop of irregular infantrymen and those responsible for general field duties, while the higher imperial statesmen paid their respects to the Sultan and received the greetings of the Grand Vizier. In the front rank of senior officials I recognized Kapudan Pasha Muezzinzade Ali, the Great Admiral of the fleet, and Lala Mustafa Pasha, commander-in-chief of the army.
“And here are the Sultan’s champions, who will have to bring about his victory, so that he can show himself worthy to be his father’s son.” Donna Reyna fluttered a crimson fan in front of her face. “But Suleyman would have marched at the head of his soldiers, like a true warrior. Selim prefers to toast their success from the cellar doorway.”
I couldn’t help glancing around, worried that someone might hear her. I tried to meet Dana’s eyes again, but Donna Reyna interposed herself between us, and I had a sense that she did so quite deliberately. Lest I seem rude, I resigned myself to replying. “You don’t seem to have much confidence in the success of this enterprise, Donna Reyna.”