Mustafa ben-Nakir was shocked. “How ungrateful you are, Michael el-Hakim! Another man would fall and kiss the ground at my feet in thankfulness. You cannot know that the most powerful men in the Ottoman Empire, from the Grand Vizier downward, are all slaves of the Sultan. Most of them were brought up in the Seraglio and have advanced, each according to his talents, to the most responsible positions. The very highest officials are subordinate to one or other of the Sultan’s slaves. To be a slave of his is therefore an aim worthy of the most ambitious; if he succeeds there is no limit to what he can do.”
“Many thanks!” I said with irony, though I had listened attentively to what he told me. “But I’m not in the least ambitious, and I feel that the higher a slave may climb toward the pinnacles of power, the more terrible will be his fall.”
“You’re right, Michael,” Mustafa admitted. “Yet even on a level floor a man may stumble. And climbing is difficult; it demands experience and practice. There’s more to it than merely scrambling upward. One must also shake off and kick away those who climb after-those who tug at one’s cloak and try in every way to drag one down. But climbing strengthens a man and forms part of that wise statecraft which the sultans inherited from the emperors of Byzantium. Remember that the Ottomans have always been ready to adopt whatever is useful and practical, from any nation. Only the shrewdest and most resourceful man can attain the heights of power in the Seraglio, where everyone spies on his neighbor and tries to trip him up. Yet the disadvantages of the system are outweighed by the element of chance. All advancement depends ultimately on the Sultan’s favor, which may be won as easily by the humblest woodcutter as by the most powerful vizier.”
A chill stole over me.
“Who and what are you, Mustafa ben-Nakir?” I asked.
an important part. The Grand Vizier has lost faith in the Sultan’s sea pashas; Khaireddin is the only true seaman. So the way is to be made smooth for him and only good is to be spoken of him in the Seraglio; his name and reputation must be exalted there, his victories painted in glowing colors, and any defeats explained away. Most important of all, Khaireddin must owe promotion solely to the Grand Vizier. You too must remember that in furthering Khaireddin’s cause with the cartographers, you serve Ibrahim. To him and to him only must you show gratitude, if ever you attain to a post of honor.”
“What you say is strange and disquieting,” I remarked. “Shall I not also be serving the Sultan?”
“Of course, of course,” returned Mustafa impatiently. “The Grand Vizier’s power derives from the Sultan, and anything that serves to strengthen Ibrahim’s position must ultimately be of profit to the Sultan. But the Grand Vizier can’t fill the Seraglio with slaves of his own choosing, as this might give rise to base suspicions. Whereas if Khaireddin sends you and your brother and other useful slaves to the Seraglio, no one can suspect them of being secretly at Ibrahim’s orders. His power exposes him to envy, as you can understand, and for his own sake he must weave a stout net to catch him were he to fall, and toss him up again to even greater eminence.”
Mustafa ben-Nakir was silent for a little before continuing, “We’re weavers, Michael el-Hakim, weaving a huge carpet. Each of us has his own thread and his own part in the great pattern. The whole pattern-the world-picture-we do not see; but it is there. Single threads may snap, colors may be clouded, and the individual weaver may fail in his task; yet the great overseer has the great pattern ever before his eyes and corrects the petty errors. You, too, Michael, shall be a weaver; then all your thoughts and actions will have purpose. You’ll be fulfilling your task within the great framework, and your life, hitherto so empty, will be filled with meaning.”
“If you allude to Allah’s carpet of eternity,” I said, “then I’m already a weaver, whether I like it or not. But if you mean Grand Vizier Ibrahim’s carpet, woven on the Sultan’s behalf, then I fear it’s too bloodstained to appeal to a sensitive heart. I also fear that it will be very clumsily cobbled together, and prove useless.”
“Allah’s will be done,” returned Mustafa suavely. “Remember you’re a slave, Michael el-Hakim, and must weave, with or without your good will. Life is a game-a strange one-and once we realize this our task is easier to fulfill; for all games come to an end. The fairest flowers fade, the most melodious song must sooner or later die away. What matter, my friend, whether your beard grows long in the service of the Seraglio, or whether in the flower of youth you’ie gathered into the arms of eternal night?”
Giulia who had been listening patiently, now rose and said, “At the baths I’ve heard women all shrieking at once until I couldn’t hear myself speak, but even their cackle had more sense in it than the big, empty words of men. Here you sit spinning phrases about weavers and rulers and Michael’s beard, while all the time the fowls are stewing to rags in the pot.”
She brought us the good food and filled Abu el-Kasim’s most valuable goblet with spiced wine, saying, “Your religion of course forbids you to drink, but after all the soul-shaking talk I need something reviving.”
The sight of her white arms made me quite limp, and the wound in my cheek was very painful, and so I begged her earnestly to pour wine for me, too, as I was not yet circumcised and therefore not wholly bound by the law. Mustafa ben-Nakir smiled mysteriously and declared that his sect also was untrammeled by the letter of the Koran.
When we had finished the sweetmeats and fruit that brought the meal to an end, we went on drinking until Giulia became slightly affected. A deeper red colored her cheeks, and as if by chance she laid an arm about my neck and stroked me with her soft finger tips.
“Mustafa ben-Nakir,” she said. “You know the art of poetry and perhaps also the secrets of women’s hearts better than Michael does. Tell me what I must do, for Michael has long desired me and I’m his defenseless slave. Hitherto I’ve resisted him because of a secret which I would not divulge. But wine has softened my heart and I beg you, Mustafa ben-Nakir, not to leave us alone together, but tell me what I must do to protect my innocence.”
Mustafa ben-Nakir replied, “I’ve not the least regard for your virtue, false Delilah, and feel only pity for poor, sick Michael; for you would never ask my advice unless you’d already made up your mind.”
He rose to leave us, but Giulia, genuinely troubled, caught him by the girdle and said, “Don’t go, Mustafa ben-Nakir! Help us to a reconciliation. My purpose was to make Michael too drunk even to see me, far less discover my secret. But it would have been better if he’d whipped me long ago, for then I might have given way to him even though I bore him ill will.”
With this she threw herself at my feet, crying aloud and weeping and imploring forgiveness. I suspected mischief, but I tried to lift her up and calm her. She wept the more bitterly until Mustafa ben-Nakir said impatiently, “Cease your howling, Delilah, for you have nothing in your heart but falsehood and deceit. What is more painful and pointless than these intimate revelations? The relationship between men and women would be incomparably happier if each party kept his own mistakes and secrets to himself.”
Giulia dried her eyes, raised her tear-stained face, and said, “Michael prefers it so, though perhaps he won’t admit it. And for some unknown reason I can’t lie to him with my body. Perhaps it is that I really love him; if so I love for the first time in my life, and so passionately that I’m afraid. What devil’s spell is it that has bound me to this foolish, credulous man, so that even to look into his trusting face makes me loathe myself? It’s like snatching a pretty toy from a child.”
I could hardly believe my ears; yet of all her words I heeded only those which told of her love for me, and I could not understand why she had always treated me so badly. I cried out to her to hold her peace. Ah, would that she had! But wine had clouded her judgment, and she said, “Michael, beloved Michael! Forgive me, but I’m not the innocent you suppose and I cannot think how you got such an idea into your head.”