Shadow of God (10 page)

His guard held the crowds back, but could not hold back the cheering and joy of his people.

“Allah bless you! God keep the Son of Selim!”

Suleiman now breathed easier as he sensed the joy of the Turkish populace at his return. The fear that had been just beneath the surface of his thoughts was quickly put to rest. There was no hostile army to bar his way; no rebellious Agha of the Janissary to stage a coup; no palace revolution to drag him down. He would be home shortly, in the cradle of his legacy. He was Suleiman, the Shadow of God on Earth.

With Ibrahim at his side, Suleiman stepped up from the ferry onto the shores of Europe; Istanbul. The City. The city of his father. The very heart of the Ottoman Empire. There was a moment of uneasy quiet, when suddenly the noise of uncontrolled shouts of joy came hurtling down the grassy slopes of the gardens. Gardeners with their sickles and pruning knives held aloft rushed to him. The Palace Janissaries leaped the carefully sculpted hedgerows, shouting for their leader, and surrounded him with their bodies in a combination of affection and protection. Soon, the Janissaries had completely sealed Suleiman off from the crowd of Turks, and were shouting in rhythmic waves, “The gift! The gift! Make the payment! Make the payment!” All pretense gone. Nothing subtle here. They were calling for the customary payment of gold by the new Sultan to his Janissaries.

Suleiman was not offended at this public display of greed and presumption. This was a time-honored tradition, and only a fool would break it. However, Suleiman had neglected to have his gold brought up with the advance party. These trim, well-muscled, and highly trained soldiers were the mainstay of every Sultan’s power. They had no life outside their duty to the Sultan. Young and celibate, their entire focus was on war and the protection of their Sultan. Without this armed force, Suleiman held no power at all.

Suleiman moved to higher ground, where he could look down upon the moving mass of bodies. The crowd surged with him, as if attached to his person, but the guard kept the masses from actually touching him. He climbed up upon a small, wooden stand that had been placed there for the purpose, and raised his arms above his
head in triumph. Still the Janissaries shouted for their reward. The noise made it impossible for the Sultan to speak.

Suleiman’s eyes scanned the gardens for Piri Pasha. But, Piri was nowhere in sight. He felt the faintest twinge of anxiety in the depths of his abdomen, for Piri’s loyalty was critical to the Sultan’s power. This was the man who attended to every decision in Selim’s reign. Had not Piri Pasha sent word for Suleiman to come immediately to Istanbul? Why was he not here now to greet the new Sultan?

Then, a slight disturbance occurred at the edge of the crowd, and Suleiman looked up hoping to see Piri emerge there. But when the sea of bodies parted, Bali Agha, Commander of the Janissaries, moved through his troops, climbing the platform to a step just below the Sultan. He was out of breath from his run, but he reached up to his new master and struck him lightly upon the shoulder with his open hand. This was the traditional greeting to a new leader by the Agha of the Sultan’s army. Thus acknowledging Suleiman as their
Seraskier,
their Commander-in-Chief, as well as their Sultan, Bali Agha held his right hand aloft, and displayed a huge bright red apple. The crowd grew silent as the Agha began to speak. “Can you eat the apple, Son of Selim?” he shouted to the crowd more than to Suleiman.

To the Ottomans, the apple represented the traditional enemy of the Janissaries, the armies of Rome. The Pope. Christianity.

Suleiman took the apple from Bali Agha, and smiled at him. Then he turned back to the crowd, and holding the apple high, he said, “In good time. In good time.”

Again, the crowd broke into shouts of joy and the fervent cheer again rose from all around the Sultan. Suleiman took a bite and tossed the apple high into the air. The Janissaries surged forward trying to catch it. Before it fell into the crowd, a scimitar flashed, and two halves of the apple came tumbling from the air.

“Make the gift, make the gift!” But, Suleiman stepped from the platform, and with his small retinue of personal guard began his walk to the Palace.

The men went silent. Bali Agha sagged with disappointment. He had hoped that Suleiman would give out the gold at that very moment. It had been the perfect time to seal the loyalty of these
men. The crowd parted in silence, and the Agha followed Suleiman toward the palace.

Achmed Agha had been sitting quietly in the shade nearby. He was glad that the Sultan had shown no fear in the presence of the Palace guard, but he had hoped for more. The Sultan had missed his chance.

Ibrahim stirred the coals and built up the fire in the small room deep inside the interior of the palace’s Third Court. The Sultan’s apartments adjoined the harem, and were guarded by both the corps of palace eunuchs as well as the Janissaries. Suleiman leaned against the back of the
divan
and pulled his white silk robes tighter around him. The early fall air had chilled quickly, and the dampness seeped even into the Sultan’s household. He had been silent since the episode at the ferry landing, and Ibrahim knew it was best to let his master ruminate alone on these matters. When it was time to seek Ibrahim’s advice, Suleiman would speak.

The dinner plates were removed and the servants finished clearing the room in silence. Suleiman had touched almost nothing but for a few sips of fruit nectar. Even the aroma of the spiced lamb had seemed to annoy him. The pilaf went untouched as well. Ibrahim, as usual, left nothing on the golden plates nor any wine in his jade goblet.

“Eight years ago my father sent me off to govern in the provinces. To become a leader of state. To go to ‘The School of the Empire.’ I have barely laid eyes on him since then. I have no idea who he was, nor do I think he ever learned who I was.”

“You were his favorite. That is certain.”

“I am
alive,
at least. I suppose that tells me something. Do you know the last thing he ever said to me?”

“No, Majesty. I do not.”

“He bid me farewell, and then he said, as if this were to guide my every decision, ‘If a Turk dismounts from the saddle to sit on a carpet, he becomes nothing.
Nothing!
’”

Ibrahim listened, but did not respond. Suleiman continued, “So here I sit upon a carpet, and the reality is that until Piri Pasha
arrives, and he and the Aghas gird me with my family’s sword, I am ‘nothing,
nothing!
’”

“You are the Shadow of God on Earth, my Lord.”

“Not until I wear that sword! And that power is in the hands of
others!
How can I be the Shadow of God on Earth, when all that separates me from death by the silken cord is the whim of another man? Of other men? Why, I might be lying in one of those family graves, and another Shadow of God would rule the Ottomans. Is this the will of Allah? Is this the Plan of God?
My
power comes only from the will of a band of slaves whom my family have trained and educated, and who are loyal to us for the gold we give them? These Janissaries are the
Devshirmé
, as too are the Aghas! They are Christian children taken from their families to fill our armies. Slaves!”

Ibrahim waited for Suleiman to go on, but the Sultan seemed to have finished.

“I, too, was a slave, my Lord,” Ibrahim said quietly. “I was trained for duty in the royal household. And you know my loyalty does not rest upon the whim of
any
man.”

Suleiman did not respond to Ibrahim’s remarks. He rose and began to pace the small dingy room. He shrugged his robes closer and scuffled his slippers along the carpet as he paced. “We trained them, we educated them. We took them from behind a plow and mounted them upon the finest horses in the world. They were starving children dressed in rags. They could neither read nor write. They had no future except for starvation and a lifelong dwindling until their deaths. Now they wear jewels in their scabbards. Herons’ plumes in their hats. We made them into a fighting force that can conquer the world. And now
that
mighty weapon is poised at
my
throat! I am subject to the whims and tantrums of ten thousand slave boys, commanded by a handful of old men!

“And my father tells me that I must not dismount from my horse to sit upon a carpet! This from a man who wanted to slay every Greek Christian in the kingdom because he thought it might please Allah! That it would bring blessings upon him!” Suleiman’s voice was steadily rising.

Ibrahim nodded, and then shook his head slowly in amazement as he focused on what Suleiman was saying. “And he
would
have slain them all if it weren’t for Ali Djemali,” Ibrahim said. Djemali had been the
Grand Mufti
, the spiritual leader of the College of Islam, and the final interpreter of Islamic Law. “Only
he
had the nerve to stand up to your father and contradict him. I think Selim believed that Ali spoke directly to the Prophet…or even to Allah, Himself. Otherwise, Ali would have lost his head along with the others. Then, of course, Ali couldn’t stop Selim from slaying forty thousand Shiite heretics in Eastern Anatolia,” Ibrahim went on, “just for the public approval.”

“If I had only thought to have the gold with me,” Suleiman said, “to have had it there at the ferry while they were cheering me. Their frenzy and their wildness could have been made to work for me. If only I had thrown a
few
bags of gold among them as a prologue to the generosity of the new Sultan. Even what gold I carried on my person would have been gesture enough.”

Suddenly there was a noise at the door, and Suleiman whirled to meet the possible threat. Ibrahim dove off the
divan
and grabbed his sword by the handle, pulling it from the scabbard, which clattered to the floor. Nobody could enter the Sultan’s presence without being announced. Though he couldn’t articulate the thought in words, Suleiman’s mind pictured a Palace coup, a revolt of the Janissaries. And his own death.

“Sultan Suleiman Khan!” the voice roared through the quiet of the palace. There in the doorway stood the only man who could arrive at the Sultan’s door without escort or guard; the only armed man on Earth besides Ibrahim who could get this close to the Sultan without carving his way through the palace guard with a sword.

“Piri Pasha!” said Suleiman. It could only be Piri Pasha. Though the man looked worn and haggard, Suleiman’s heart swelled at the sight of him. For, here was not a force of ten thousand Janissaries come to assassinate the new Sultan, but old Piri Pasha, his father’s most trusted friend; Selim’s Grand Vizier; and now, Suleiman’s Grand Vizier.

Though Piri’s clothes were a mess, and the man looked about to fall over from exhaustion, there he stood, a great smile stretched across his face, his arms flung wide as he trudged forward to hug his new master. He took Suleiman’s hand in his and pressed it to his heart. Then he knelt and kissed the Sultan’s sleeve.

“My Lord, forgive me for not being here to greet you. I hurried as fast as my strength and my years would allow. But, as you can see,” he said, his arms wide, displaying his filthy clothes, “I am getting too old for such hard travel, and these bones cannot take the punishment that they once could. I took a secret way home, but even Bali Agha’s huge army overtook me on the longer route.” Piri Pasha’s voice began to tremble with emotion, and a tears formed on his cheeks. “But, the very sight of you has given me strength. Look how you have prospered and grown! Why you were barely a lad when I saw you last. And now you are Sultan Suleiman, Emperor of the Ottomans!”

Piri snapped his fingers and two servants appeared at the doorway carrying small packages. Piri took one of the gifts, wrapped in an ornate silk brocade, and handed it to Suleiman. The Pasha waited with bowed head as the Sultan untied the ribbons. Suleiman held the gift up for Ibrahim to see. It was a brand-new ornate clock.

“To mark the beginning of a new reign, my Sultan, ” Piri said.

Suleiman hugged his Vizier silently, and put the clock down. Then he turned to see what other gifts Piri Pasha had brought to him. The remainder of the packages contained the funeral clothing: a black caftan and black pants. Piri moved close to Suleiman, carrying a golden caftan, folded into a neat, bulky bundle. In a quiet voice heard only by the Sultan and Ibrahim, he said, “My Lord, under these black robes of mourning, wear this tunic of richest gold brocade. Never be without splendor about your person. These people may love you for yourself, but when they look at you, they must see the Ruler of Rulers. Unfortunately, what they
see
is more important to them than what resides inside you. Your royalty must always be directly in front of their eyes.”