With a sensation of pain I looked away and said, “Nothing ails me, Giulia. I’m only tired after a somewhat exacting conversation with the Grand Vizier. But he trusts me and I think will give me much of Master Gritti’s former work. He expressed no opinion about the war, but he has not forbidden me to counsel peace. The cup of success is full to the brim, but why-ah, why is it so bitter?”
Hardly had I said this than I began shivering in every limb and realized that I was gravely ill. Giulia at first fancied that I had been poisoned in the Grand Vizier’s palace, but having recovered from the first shock she put me to bed and administered sudorifics. I had succumbed to the fever so prevalent in Istanbul; indeed it was a wonder I had escaped it so long. It was not dangerous, but was characterized by a very severe headache.
When Grand Vizier Ibrahim learned of my disorder he showed me the greatest kindness, sending me his own physician and causing an astrological table of diet and medicines to be drawn up for my use. He also visited me in person, thereby giving rise to much whispering in the palace. The result was that during the course of my sickness I received a number of presents of the kind that pass constantly from hand co hand in the Seraglio.
Giulia was overjoyed and talked unceasingly of these gifts and their givers, and of the presents that it was my duty to offer in return. The most sensible plan would have been to pass the same things on, since this was in no way contrary to accepted custom. But Giulia was incapable of letting anything out of her hands once she had firm hold of it, however ugly or useless it might be. Thus my illness proved very costly because of all the presents I must buy, while in the Seraglio speculation grew as to what could have become of all the great bronze urns, Nubians in armor, and other strange objects that had drifted about the Seraglio for years.
When at last I began to recover, Giulia showed herself kinder and more considerate than she had been for a long time, and taking my hand one day she said, “Michael, how is it that you talk to me less openly than you used top Has your heart been turned against me by some malicious rumor? You know what a nest of gossip the Seraglio is, and my close friendship with Sultana Khurrem has aroused such jealousy that it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the most terrible things were told of me. Believe none of it, my dear Michael. You know me better than anyone-you know how openhearted I am.”
Her needless suspicions saddened me and I answered kindly, “There’s no reason for my gloomy mood. It’s all part of my sickness and will soon pass. Forgive me, and try to be patient with me as always.”
In this I was not quite frank, having seen that to be loyal to Ibrahim I must behave with reserve toward Giulia. I was sure that she would pass on to Sultana Khurrem all that I told her, and thenceforth I was very circumspect. Hitherto my candor had been excessive, a fact that was to be of great advantage now, since Giulia had come to believe me incapable of concealment.
Mindful of the Grand Vizier’s advice I now began inviting poets and eloquent dervishes to my house-ragged fellows who cared little how they earned their bread so long as they might live untrammeled among like-minded companions. Though Mussulmans, they were much addicted to wine drinking, and were glad enough to accept my invitation. I fancy they even conceived a certain liking for me, for I was content as a rule to listen silently to their talk and their poems.
As I came to know them better I was astonished at their daring, for they did not hesitate to compose biting epigrams on the Grand Vizier’s vanity, the haughty silence of the Sultan, and the various errors of which other noted men were guilty. They even wrote ambiguous verses about the laws of the Koran. The Persian art of versifying they held to be supreme and many of them were diligent in translating Persian poems into the Turkish language. They trimmed and polished their works as a jeweler polishes stones, and when they hit on some new or startling piece of imagery they rejoiced as if they had found a treasure. Yet I could not take their skilled game as seriously as they did. To them the composition of a poem seemed as admirable and important as the conquest of a kingdom or a voyage into the unknown world; they even claimed that in the golden pages of history the names of bards would outlive those of eminent generals and learned interpreters of the Koran.
Their chief merit was never to be wearisome. Caring little for this world’s goods they could sprinkle their ragged cloaks with the gold dust of fantasy, and though ever willing to compose eulogies to order for the rich and powerful, yet the pleasure of the work was of greater value to them than rich reward, and if they hit upon some happy witticism at their patron’s expense they would rather forfeit his fee than omit the jest.
The friendship of these curiously free men came to me at a fortunate moment, for I was still unduly complacent over my position, my house, my riches, and my worldly success. It was good for me to hear their acid comments on jeweled girdles, plumed turbans, and silver-mounted saddles. A bright flower or a scarlet fish swimming through crystal water was for them as breath taking a sight as any diamond. When I attempted to explain that diamonds had other merits besides beauty, the poet Baki, who neglected both ablution and prayer, drew the corner of his mantle over his dusty feet and said, “Man possesses nothing. In the end it is rather things that possess man. The only true value of a diamond is the beauty hidden within it, and beautiful things can enslave as easily as ugly ones. Wiser therefore to love a tulip-cheeked girl from a distance, for to possess her may be to become her slave and lose one’s freedom, and loss of freedom is a slow death.”
Giulia could not understand what pleasure I could take in the company of these disreputable men, from among whom I very carefully chose a few whom I could count on as my friends. She spent many of her days and nights at the Seraglio and I was not inquisitive. Unknown to her I was preparing for the hour when the Sultan and the Grand Vizier would visit my house in disguise to pass the evening in the company of poets and wits, as they had been wont to do in Master Gritti’s house.
Sometime after this the Sultan was assailed by one of his heavy fits of melancholy, and the Grand Vizier sent me an agreed signal. Late the same evening there came a sound of knocking at my gate and two slightly inebriated men, their faces hidden under a fold of their kaftans, stepped inside declaiming verses to the porter. They were of course attended by a number of guards, but these together with two deaf-mutes remained outside the house. No greater proof of Ibrahim’s confidence could have been given me. I led my visitors into the house, where they sat down somewhat apart to sip wine and listen to a learned dervish who was just then reading aloud his translation of a Persian poem.
But the others were too shrewd to be taken in by the newcomers and soon perceived that these were no ordinary guests. It would have been insulting if they had not, for Ibrahim rightly considered himself the finest-looking man in the Ottoman Empire, while Sultan Suleiman was equally assured that his own demeanor betrayed him for the nobleman he was, despite the mask he held before his face. But my guests had sense enough to feign ignorance. At his request they addressed the Sultan as Muhub the poet, and pressed him eagerly to read aloud his verses. He demurred for some time, but at length drew out a roll of paper covered with beautiful script and read from it in a musical voice. His hands shook as he did so, for he believed himself unrecognized and knew that he was in the presence of the foremost experts in the city. It was evident that he feared their candid criticism. So far as I could judge his work had no other fault than a slight verbosity, a slight monotony, and a slight touch of the commonplace, at least in comparison with Baki’s allusive, whimsical style.