Piker Press Banner
December 09, 2024

Consolaçam 7

By Ron Singer

Chapter Seven.

In the course of our first twelve years of marriage, Snezhana gave me three children, two girls and, finally, a boy. It was with the birth of our son, in 1525, that we were summoned to the Presence. Not only was this summons a singular honor; it turned out to be the occasion of a momentous reunion.

Invited to Topkapi, Suleiman’s magnificent, newly expanded palace on the shore of the Bosphorus, since Snezhana was still recovering from her recent confinement, I went alone, other than two of my bodyguards. After a short delay, I was summoned into the Arz Odası [Chamber of Petitions], in the Third Courtyard.

This was my first visit to Topkapi. As I entered the precincts of the Courtyard, through the Bâbüssaâde [Gate of Felicity], I was suitably impressed by the gold-topped dome, vaulted tile roof, and marble pillars. Inside the Gate, I continued to be impressed, by the golden-framed windows, the lovely fountain, and so forth. Since I had been instrumental in the victories that had yielded so much booty, I took personal pride in the gold that embellished the entryway to the Chamber, which reminded me, as well, of the churches, mosques and synagogues of Cordoba, all those years ago.

But even these splendors hardly prepared me for the huge, magnificent Arz Odası, at the far end of which was the throne of Suleiman. Leaving my bodyguards outside the entrance portal, I crossed the room in the accepted manner —creeping forward on my knees, that is. When I was about five meters short of the throne, a hidden door alongside of it opened, and Suleiman emerged, accompanied by his newly appointed Grand Vizier, Ibrahim Pasha.

Having just passed his 30th year of life, the Sultan’s beard was still dark. He wore his celebrated huge white turban and a moderately ornate robe of white sable and pleated gold cloth. After I had gone through the prescribed rituals of kissing the Sultan’s slipper and the Grand Vizier’s ring, the Suleiman sat down on his throne and, without preamble, addressed me. As his master spoke, Ibrahim Pasha vanished into the shadows beside, and slightly behind, the throne.

As I knew, the Grand Vizier had been elevated from his position as a captured Greek slave, just as Suleiman’s favorite wife, Hurrem, had once been a captured Ruthenian. (Her original name was Roxelana.) By the time of my audience, she has borne him the first of several sons, Mehmed. Although, by then, she resided in Topkapi, the new palace, I did not encounter Hurrem on this occasion, or any other.

Abreu bey,” Suleiman began, in his soft basso, “I have invited you into the Presence for two principal reasons, one having to do with the future, and the other, the past. First, let me say that it is your inestimable service to the Empire that has prompted me to grant you this audience.” I mumbled the expected thanks and protestations. “First, then, I congratulate you on the auspicious occasion of the birth of your first-born son, whom I anticipate will follow in his father’s footsteps, by serving the Empire. Thus, he is the harbinger of a bright future for both our families …” (pause) “… and for your people, as well, whom I will continue to shelter from the persecution of their enemies.” Although I well knew that this promise of protection would depend on the shifting diplomatic needs of the dynasty, I mumbled the expected professions of profound gratitude.

A broad smile crossed the Emperor’s bearded face. “But I have also made mention of your past, my dear subject and friend.” With that, he gestured toward the Grand Vizier, who emerged from the shadows and exited the side door. A minute later, he returned, ushering in a man and woman, both very familiar to me, despite their bowed heads. These were my sister, Chana Jael, and my best friend, Demopoulos. It took me only a moment to rush forward and to lock them both in a close embrace.

That I had seen neither Chani nor Demo for more than a decade, and that the Emperor had now produced them so suddenly, caused me to understand why Suleiman was regarded as a “friend of God” —that is, a miracle-worker. But he was quick to explain the apparent miracle.

“These two were taken, last week, by our corsairs, during a raid off the coast of Morocco. As they both claimed close acquaintance with you, Abreu bey, I thought you might appreciate being included in our consideration of their fate.”

I well knew that the usual fate of such prisoners was a choice of conversion to Islam, or death. I glanced at the prisoners, neither of whom seemed to bear marks of ill-treatment, and both of whom were freshly bathed and garbed. Demo was decked out in broad blue pantaloons, a red shirt, and brown leather shoes; and Chani, in comparable Turkish woman’s garb. It looked to me as if, over the decade, they both might have aged somewhat more rapidly than I had, myself. For several moments, I hesitated, then made a deep bow to the Emperor, who noticed my hesitation.

“Well, friend,” he said, with a smile, “you seem uncertain, but the question is not really so difficult. I know, already, that these two are your sister and your best friend. As I said, since they are both infidel captives, they would normally be given the choice of conversion or death. But, since we are so deeply in your debt, why don’t you help us to decide? Perhaps, as the wise King Solomon (said to be my namesake, of sorts) decided, in the case of the two mothers, as is narrated in our Qu’uran and your Bible, you can help us arrive at a … just decision.” He paused for a few moments, then continued, still smiling.

“I would be prepared, for instance—with the concurrence, of course, of my esteemed Kadi [religious judges]— to allow your sister and your friend to convert, to be joined in wedlock, and to reside in our domains, as full citizens. In fact, since Demopoulos bey has demonstrated to us that he is an experienced and able seaman, our Admirals might even offer him command of one of our merchant vessels.”

I was made momentarily speechless, both by the Emperor's generosity and good will, and by his having, apparently, read my own thoughts, from the last time I had seen Chani and Demo. But he had not read all of my thoughts.

“Most gracious Sovereign,” I replied, genuflecting, “how can I begin to thank you?” I cast another glance at the two captives. Chani, if anything, looked as if she had been coarsened by the years, and by who knows what experiences. In short, she looked more like a courtesan than ever. As for Demo, he looked as if his hard life had served only to augment his natural toughness. It took me only a moment to reach a decision, which I hoped the Lawgiver would approve.

But, before announcing my decision, in the interests of delicacy, I said, “Majesty, I would, perhaps, find it less … embarrassing to offer my suggestions out of the presence of those concerned.” The Emperor ordered Ibrahim Pasha to lead Chani and Demo back out through the side door. When they were gone, Suleiman gestured for me to proceed.








Article © Ron Singer. All rights reserved.
Published on 2024-11-11
Image(s) are public domain.
0 Reader Comments
Your Comments






The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.