Hardly had he finished speaking when we felt the slight shock of a rowing boat against our hull and heard a man whining for alms. For two aspers this fellow promised to row anyone to the opposite shore and its wonderful pleasure haunts, where the commandments of the Koran did not obtain and where women, kinder than the houris of Paradise, entertained the guests so long as their money lasted. Night in the harbor quarter was not made for sleep, the eloquent boatman assured us in a whisper. It was not long before Andy and I found ourselves gliding over the dim waters of the Golden Horn, unable in the darkness to make out the features of our ferryman.
As we approached the farther shore the waters reflected the glow of torches and we heard the gay music of stringed instruments. We drew alongside a stone quay and I gave the ragged boatman the fee he demanded, though it was an extortionate one for so short a journey. The watchman paid us no heed and we passed straight through the harbor gates into the brightly lit street, where unveiled women addressed us without embarrassment in a number of different languages. Suddenly Andy opened his eyes wide, seized me by the arm, and exclaimed, “As I live, there’s a cask of honest ale standing by that door, with a bundle of straw above it!”
He carried me through the doorway as if I had been a feather and when our eyes had grown accustomed to the light we beheld a number of rough fellows sitting at tables and drinking. A fat, gray-haired man was busy at a cask, filling tankard after tankard with foaming ale, and on seeing us he said, “By Allah, you’re not the first Moslems to enter this respectable tavern, for the Prophet never forbade his followers to drink ale. The holy book mentions only wine, and so with a clear conscience you may drain a tankard here.”
As he spoke he surveyed us suspiciously, as if wondering where he had seen us before. 1 stared back, and suddenly recognizing those bristly eyebrows and that purple nose I exclaimed in astonishment, “Jesus, Mary! Is it not Master EimerP How in the world did you get here?”
The man turned deadly pale and crossed himself repeatedly. Then, snatching up a carving knife, he hurled himself upon me and shrieked, “And you’re that accursed Michael Pelzfuss, Madame Genevieve’s confederate! Now at last I can make mincemeat of you.”
But Andy snatched away the knife and hugged him to his breast to stifle his wrath; as he struggled and stormed in Andy’s arms I thumped him heartily on the back and Andy spoke kindly to him, saying, “How pleasant to meet an old friend on our first evening in the Sultan’s capital! May it prove a good omen for our task here. Don’t abuse Michael, dear Master Eimer; was it not you who lured Madame Genevieve from him and so found yourself supping with the devil? It’s no fault of his that Madame Genevieve cheated you of your money and then sold you to the galleys. It’s the result of your own sins. Madame Genevieve is now proprietress of a highly esteemed brothel in Lyons, founded with your money.”
Master Eimar was purple in the face.
“Burn me if I’ll bandy words with curs like you! You both helped to rob me and I was mad to trust such devil-ridden heretics. That you should have trodden the Cross underfoot and taken the turban is no more than I might have expected. It’s but a step from Luther’s abominable heresies to the Prophet and his teaching.”
But when Andy seized him by the throat and threatened to pull the house down about his ears, Master Eimer’s tone grew milder; he asked us to pardon him for losing his wits in the surprise of meeting us, and to give him our opinion of his ale, as he was not altogether satisfied with the Hungarian hops of which it was brewed. Andy at once swallowed a mugful, licked his lips, and agreed that there was something a little strange about the taste, though it was long since he had so much as seen a drop of honest ale. After a further draught he nodded and said, “Now I taste it. It’s as it used to be, and tickles the nose pleasantly. Surely no better ale is brewed this side of Vienna.”
By the time we had drunk a few stoups of this really excellent strong ale, the three of us were friends and it was cheering to meet with a good Christian again after all these Moslems. I begged Master Eimer to tell me his adventures, but he was unwilling to say anything of his sufferings as a galley slave aboard the Venetian warship. Yet, after some further drinking, he displayed to us his fat back with its network of scars-a perpetual reminder of the overseer’s whip. He held himself askew when walking and believed he would never lose this habit, which resulted from two years spent chained to the same oar. Master Eimer was over fifty and he thought he must have perished but for the powerful brewer’s heart he inherited from his father and grandfather, further strengthened by good ale of his own drinking.
In the course of a battle with the Imperial fleet, the Venetian war galley had been so badly damaged that in the confusion Master Eimer was able to hammer out the bolt to which he was fettered and swim ashore. Soon afterward he was taken prisoner by Moslems and sold in the Cairo slave market. A compassionate Jew who had embraced the faith of Islam bought him his freedom; then took him to Istanbul and financed a brewery for him. The tavern had paid well, for ale was rare enough among Mussulmans for the price to be kept high. (This last was to our address, for he had noted how smoothly the good drink was slipping down our throats.) With a jingle of my purse I asked coldly what we owed him, and he named a figure that made my hair stand on end. After that I could not wonder that he had laid the foundations of a substantial fortune is so short a time.
I asked him to advise me how an insignificant person like myself could obtain audience of the Grand Vizier, as I had matters of great weight to impart. To my boundless amazement Master Eimer answered, “Nothing easier! All you need do is go up the hill here and have a word with Master Aloisio Gritti. You can be sure he’ll further your business if it’s of real importance. Try him. At the worst, his servants can only throw you out.”
I asked who Master Aloisio Gritti might be. Eimer replied, “In all the Pera quarter there’s no one with a worse reputation. But he’s rich-a natural son of the Doge of Venice and a Greek slave woman.
They say he’s a close friend of the Grand Vizier and directs the secret negotiations between the Christian states and the High Porte.”
I doubted very much whether I should be doing Khaireddin a service by dragging the Venetians into his affairs. But these misgivings came too late, for just then a man in the dress of a Christian clerk rose and approached me to ask if I sought Master Aloisio Gritti. He declared himself willing to guide me to his house as he was bound thither himself. I was averse from keeping company with strangers in a seaport town such as this, but Master Eimer rebuked me for my suspicions, saying, “The Sultan’s city is the safest and most peaceable of all cities in the world, especially at night, for the Sultan allows no brawling or thieving. During the hours of darkness his janissaries patrol the streets, maintaining good order everywhere. You may accompany this man with an easy mind, Michael Pelzfuss, for I know his face and believe him to be one of Master Gritti’s servants.”
We took cordial leave of Master Eimer and went out with the clerk. As soon as we were in the street he said, “You’re two of the pirate king’s party and arrived today from Algeria. But I didn’t want to disturb you until you had emptied your tankards.”
I asked him how in Allah’s name he could know who we were, and he replied smoothly, “When Master Gritti learned that janissaries were guarding your vessel he sent a boatman to fetch you. He’s already waiting to learn whether you have anything of importance to tell him.”