He paused, as if waiting for a question, but I was still too confused. From clocks with alarms to a tube that intensified eyesight, from a self-propelled spit to cast-iron cannons, that morning my journey through the world of machines had been a headlong trip.
“Her Majesty Elizabeth I,” Fitch continued, “is so jealous of the Sussex cannons that she is thinking of preventing them by law from being sold to Catholic states, but there is no prohibition on their being purchased by a Jewish king.”
A masterpiece of diplomacy. England was looking for a commercial outlet in the East. England had excellent cannons at the lowest prices on the market. Yossef would become king of an island in the eastern Mediterranean. Do ut des.
Fitch resumed his thread. “The future kingdom of Cyprus will receive an annual supply of one hundred cast-iron cannons, in exchange for exclusive commercial capitulations for English vessels in the ports of Larnaca, Limassol, Paphos and Famagusta.”
“What are your credentials for such an agreement?” I asked.
Fitch remained unflappable. “The word of Her Majesty Elizabeth I, whose envoy I am pleased to declare myself. And I guarantee, Signor Cardoso, that Her Majesty does not waste her breath. She is willing to seal the agreement as soon as Yossef Nasi is king of Cyprus.”
A long silence followed, after which it was Nasi who spoke. His words were directed at me alone. “When everything is concluded we will continue to maintain good relations with the Sultan. We will pay the annual tribute and fill his cellars with the most excellent wine, but we will defend ourselves on our own, and remain independent. Cyprus will become the commercial base for trade between the Ottoman Empire and England. And when Sokollu’s plan to cut a canal through the Isthmus of Suez is realized, our kingdom will be the crossroads of trade between three continents.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Wealth, strength, freedom. We should put it on our flags.”
I looked down at the cannon and touched it with my fingers. Yossef Nasi had just shown me that his plans were not molded from the stuff of dreams. They were forged from English iron.
At last I understood the true difference between the two men who had guided my steps as an adult. Consigliere Nordio had forced me to hunt for him like a bloodhound, muzzle lowered along the narrow calli of Venice. Nasi, on the other hand, had made me lift my head and fly like a falcon, like the Altai that I had seen taking flight from the arm of Hassan Agha and soaring proudly above the fields. He had put in my hands one of those tubes invented by Takiyuddin, and with it I could see Cyprus and the world, and read fate in the stars.
Interlude. Three days of fever, 4–7 Rabi’at Thani 978 (September 5–8, 1570)
The old man kneels on the mat, in front of his writing board. Evening is falling outside, but enough light is still filtering through the window, and the lamps are out. He has spent the whole afternoon in the room, leaving his pen only to drink kishir with Ali and receive a merchant from Scutari in search of advice on a cargo of coffee.
He dries the page and stacks it on the pile to his left: It’s a hand’s span high, ten years of memories for each finger. Worn-out paper, ink scars, written in a Latin that is by now threadbare, patched by the old man with Turkish, Arabic, German, and Venetian terms. Saints Jerome and Augustine would not recognize their chosen language.
He rereads his last words, his head heavy, then gets up and stretches his back. He needs to move, to smell the salt, silence the voices and listen to the sea.
In the doorway, Mukhtar holds him back by his shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sheik. Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?” Ismail touches her hand with his fingers and shakes his head.
Leaning on his stick, he slowly walks up the hill. As he does every evening, he punctuates his walk with greetings and quick visits to people’s houses, he eats a borek stuffed with mince, quenches his thirst at the fountain of the big cemetery of Karaca Ahmet. The scent of hundreds of cypresses fills his lungs. When he comes down to the shore, near the site of Chalcedon, the profile of the old city is already a dark shadow against the purple of the sky. Flocks of storks fly down along the Bosphorus, migrating toward a place that they call home.
In the twilight breeze, the old man is prey to long bouts of shivering, not just from the cold. He feels a subtle unease traveling down his bones; his legs are frail as plaster. He has walked for more than two miles, and now he’s wondering if he’ll get home before dark.
His feet sink into the sand, his stick gets stuck. He falls, gets up, falls again.
He shuffles over to a little fishing boat, clutches its edge and drops into it, seeking shelter under the fabric of the sail. His teeth chatter like a crazed machine, a sign that the fever has returned. The same fever that made him late in reaching Tiberias.
The fever of the oasis of Elim.
The sandy course of the wadi opens and narrows, the first channel between rocky highlands, then stretches, leveled by herds, wide enough for the dromedaries to proceed along it several abreast. I take a little sip from my flask, and the water turns my body’s interior into a garden in bloom. There is no wind, but effort is a dull pain that tries to stay hidden.
Silent days, an incessant march, eating on the hoof, pausing only to sleep and pray, men and animals as old as the desert, as the oasis we must reach.
Elim, among the rocks of Sinai, halfway between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean.
In that place, the morning dew turned into manna, to appease the hunger of the Israelites fleeing the pharaoh.
The palms of Elim sway over the fiery sand.
Unloading the dromedaries, preparing the fire, drawing water from the wells.
We eat cooked food, after many days of nothing but dates.
I struggle to swallow a few mouthfuls, then collapse exhausted, without finishing my meal.
“Ismail, shayk!” Hafiz’s face is framed by stars, the smell of damp sand and night.
“Ali, Ali, we’ve found him.” Mukhtar’s voice, choking in her throat.
Sturdy arms lift him up, supporting him under the armpits, gripping his legs.
“What’s happened, old man? Is it the fever again?” The Sufi rests his rough hand on the sick man’s forehead.
Ismail feels the fresh, dry palm caressing his skin. “I’m home now,” he whispers, before closing his eyes.
This is the place where the head will be severed. The wheels groan, the donkeys lower their heads, the cart comes to a standstill. Around us, a pack of rabid dogs has been following our course, and now it is approaching. A vicious gang, barking and foaming at the mouth.
The heretic’s swollen face attracts blows and spittle. There isn’t a shadow of repentance in his face. Only a huge crow spreading its wings.
His neck is on the block. The crowd points and comments, shouts insults, throws mud and rotten vegetables and pots of piss. The sun is halfway through its course.