Since then they'd met again only once, in Iran, when the Turks had ravaged the Yerevan and razed the palace of Tahmasp Shah and in Nakhichevan left no stone mortared to another. Stones that had stood since before the birth of Christ, until the janissaries came. It had been a formal occasion, an inspection of the troops and disbursement of rewards on the outskirts of the latter devastation before continuing their pursuit
of the Shiites toward the Oxus. Ibrahim, as janitor of his
orta
, had accepted the bonus money due his men for their ruthlessness and bravery. Abbas had congratulated him on his distinguished career and invited him for tea, and they agreed that at some future time when circumstances allowed they should renew their special friendship. But circumstances never did.
During Tannhauser's sickness they'd talked little, Abbas being preoccupied with military matters and the intrigues of the war council, which as always on Turkish campaigns were potentially lethal. Tonight they ate pilaf and roast pigeon and sugared almonds. They drank coffee. Abbas had changed into a caftan of watered white silk, woven through with gold-and-silver thread. From his ear hung a perfect gray pearl the size of a hazelnut. He owned lands and shipping interests in the Golden Horn. He was a man of high refinement and great culture. He was one of those warriors to whom war was abomination. They were altogether too few, and Tannhauser found that his affection for the man had not diminished despite the years.
Tannhauser thanked him for yet again saving his life and Abbas gave thanks to Allah for the chance to do so, for Charity was a sacred obligation.
"In a time of great evils such as this one, when the wings of the Angel of Death are everywhere felt and heard, small acts of kindness are as jewels from Heaven, and more so to the giver than to he who receives them, for as the Prophet, blessed be His name, said, 'Be compassionate to others, that you may be granted compassion by Allah.' " Abbas added, "If you once save a man's life, you become his guardian forever."
Thinking of Bors and Sabato Svi, as well as the noble
gazi
seated before him, Tannhauser said, "In that I've known the greatest fortune, for I'm guarded by lions."
Abbas asked him how he'd come to be taken by the Christian dogs. It was distasteful to lie into the luminous brown eyes of the man who had twice been his savior, but it was the least of his recent crimes.
"A cavalry patrol surprised me on the road to Marsaxlokk," Tannhauser said. "It was a little after dawn, in early June, and they came on me like demons from Gallows Point, which I'd understood was ours."
Abbas nodded. "That was the morning they destroyed Torghoud's batteries. As for demons . . ." His lips twisted and he shook his head. "These
knights are the Children of Satan. Some say La Valette is a necromancer and that devils have been seen by his side."
"He is only a man," said Tannhauser.
"You have met him?" asked Abbas.
Tannhauser said, "I have seen him. La Valette is one of those old men whose only true love is war. If there is necromancy at work it is that. Without war he would be shriveled or dead, useless, decayed. But war renews his blood, lightens his step, sharpens his eyes. His own men regard him as a demigod, but there's no reason we should do the same."
"He's proved himself a formidable adversary."
"He plays to his strengths and our weaknesses. He has a genius for siege and defense in depth. He knows the soldier's heart, for such is his own. We're not fighting Shiites or Austrians."
Abbas's brow rose in a weary gesture. "Would that the council knew it." The reason for his earlier black mood became clear. "Mustafa lacks the patience to let the cannon and the miners do their work. Dig, I tell him, mine their walls and destroy them from below. But mass assaults thrill his blood, like a gambler with too much gold who must risk losing all to find enjoyment. At least he's accepted my demand to construct a pair of siege towers. Two galleys at Marsaxlokk are being dismantled for the timbers."
Abbas had once studied architecture under the famed Greek
devshirme
Sinan, commander of the Sultan's war machines and builder of a thousand mosques. He added, with a muted pride, "They'll be constructed to my own design, but will take two weeks or more to complete. In the meanwhile, the lives of our men will continue to be squandered."
It seemed to Tannhauser that if the Turks were building war engines more suited to antiquity than to the modern age, the besiegers were approaching desperation. He kept this thought to himself and said, "And Piyale?"
"Kapudan Pasha Piyale is the wiser strategist, but his fear for our Sultan's fleet dominates his thought. He's desperate to conclude the siege before the high winds of autumn. Once the winds come, the fleet will be stranded here throughout the winter. We're a thousand miles from home. Sometimes it seems farther than that."
Words of comfort or encouragement escaped Tannhauser's effort to conjure them. He let the silence stand.
"We will conquer, if that be Allah's will," said Abbas. "But the cost will be high. Especially to the janissaries."
"The cost to the janissaries is always high."
"It is their vocation." Abbas studied him for a moment. "You are known in the bazaar as a trader in opium. They say that when Malta falls you plan to trade in pepper, from Alexandria."
Abbas had kept his ears open but Tannhauser's masquerade was proven sound. He thought of Sabato Svi and inwardly smiled. Sabato would have been amused to know that his faith in the market for pepper had now spread to the heart of the Turkish high command.
He said, "The future of the empire lies in trade. If I may say so, more than in war."
"Why did you leave the janissaries?"
The question was asked without either warning or threat. Tannhauser gave his stock answer. "There are only so many times a man can march across Iran before his feet ask if there isn't another way of serving our Sultan."
Abbas smiled. "The
kullar
of the Sultan's sword have little choice in such matters. You retired before the age at which it is normally permitted, and with the prospect of high advancement before you."
Tannhauser had not expected Abbas to be so well informed. He didn't answer.
"I will tell you a story I heard," said Abbas. "The tragic fate of our Sultan's eldest son, Prince Mustafa, is widely known. As a member of his personal guard, you would know it better than most."
"Indeed," said Tannhauser. "I saw the prince's body thrown onto the carpet outside our Sultan's campaign tent."
At the time, Suleiman had had four sons alive of the eight his two wives had borne him. Prince Mustafa's mother was Gulbahar, who had long been supplanted in the court, and in Suleiman's heart, by Roxelane, "the Russian woman," who was mother to the other three. Roxelane knew that if Prince Mustafa were to ascend the throne-and, since his talents were great and both the army and the aristocracy were behind him, this was likely-he would have his three half brothers murdered. The Osmanli tradition of fratricide was hallowed by time. Suleiman himself was the only survivor of five full-blood brothers. Their father, Selim the Grim, had murdered the other four, leaving only Suleiman to rule.
By means of a series of intrigues Roxelane convinced Suleiman that his son not only was planning to dethrone him but had even established relations with the Safavid heretics of Iran, with whom Suleiman was at war. Suleiman summoned Prince Mustafa to his camp in Karamania, and with characteristic ruthlessness had him strangled by the deaf-mute eunuchs.
"If Prince Mustafa had meant to overthrow the emperor, he would never have responded to the summons," said Tannhauser. "I knew the prince. The plot was a grotesque invention by the Russian woman."
"We will never know," said Abbas, discreetly. "But that is not the subject of my story. The army's fury at the prince's death was great, especially amongst the janissaries. If there'd been a man prepared to lead them, nothing could have stopped them from overthrowing our Sultan on the spot, perhaps even killing him. The cauldrons would have been tipped over."
The brass cauldron from which the janissaries ate their single daily meal was the symbol of their Order. To tip it over was the signal for revolt, an event to which at least two previous sultans owed their reigns. While the janissaries were numerically the smallest corps in the army, their political power was immense.
Tannhauser said, "There was no such leader."
Abbas looked at Tannhauser keenly. Tannhauser felt nothing. Whatever feeling he had harbored had been exorcised long ago. He said, "Even if there had been such a man, and such a revolt, it would only have unleashed war between Prince Mustafa's son, Murad, and the other brothers. Better that one man die than countless thousands. Our Sultan, as always, was wise."
"Exactly so," agreed Abbas. "Which brings me back to my subject. Certain powers required that all trace of the prince's bloodline be extinguished. Forever. Murad was strangled soon afterward. Prince Mustafa's other son was only three years old. Suleiman sent a court eunuch and a janissary captain to put the child-his grandson-to death. This captain was chosen by lot from the dead prince's bodyguard, as a guarantee they'd renewed their loyalty to their Sultan."
Tannhauser was suddenly bone tired and filled with melancholy. He wanted to return to his bed. He wanted the Ethiop to watch over him. He craved his healing silence. But the Ethiop wasn't here. Only politeness prevented him from leaving Abbas's table.
"The child's elected executioner was the janissary captain," Abbas continued. "But when he saw the boy walk toward him-with his little hands outstretched to offer a kiss-the janissary fainted."
The janissary had in fact left the tent to vomit in the dust, but there seemed no merit in correcting Abbas's version of events.
Abbas concluded: "The black eunuch performed the deed in his stead."
"Why do you tell me this story?" asked Tannhauser.
"Is the story true?" said Abbas.
Tannhauser didn't answer.
"I can understand," said Abbas, "why that janissary might lose his taste for military service, and why the Sultan's gratitude might extend to permitting his honorable retirement."
In Abbas's eyes was a look that Tannhauser recalled from the first time he'd met him, on a cold spring morning in a mountain valley whose rivers he sometimes heard in the landscapes of his dreams. A look of recognition that crossed an unbridgeable gulf for no other reason than that it was able to do so, and was therefore ordained by some higher power, be it human or Divine. Tannhauser blinked and looked away.
"At the height of your fever," said Abbas, "when you were insensible, and the physicians told me there was little hope, you murmured a chant, over and again. I put my ear to your lips to listen. What you repeated were the first verses of
Adh-Dhariyat
."
The Arabic cadences rolled through Tannhauser's mind like a haunting strain. Still he didn't speak, and Abbas quoted them for him.
"By the winds that winnow with a winnowing, And those that bear the burden of the rain, And those that glide with ease upon the sea, And those Angels who scatter blessings by Allah's command, Verily that which you are promised is surely true, And verily Judgment and Justice will come to pass."
He nodded. "It was the first of the verses of
Al-Kitab
that you taught me, because that was the
surah
from which you chose my name."
"God chose it, not I."
Tannhauser nodded. He did not much dwell upon those days, but for a moment the memories caught him, and he realized that this tranquil night with Abbas was precious, and that the time comes when even dark days are remembered with something like affection.
He said, "I learned the verses you speak now as you spoke them then, which pleased you, even though I couldn't understand them."
"No man can wholly understand the word of God," said Abbas.
"So you told me at that time. Would that others knew it."
Abbas nodded, somewhat somberly.
"You also told me," said Tannhauser, "that the word of Allah cannot be spoken in any other tongue, for Arabic is the tongue in which He chose to speak to the Prophet, blessed be His name. Yet you translated the name of the
Adh-Dhariyat
for me: 'The Winnowing Winds.'"
Abbas laughed, surprised. "I did?"
"It was a comfort to me, I don't know why. And a great mystery. I pressed you on its meaning. 'What is a winnowing wind?' You were very patient. You considered it. 'The wind that separates the wheat from the chaff,' you said. I wondered if I were one or the other-for I felt that a wind had swept me away." He smiled. "It sweeps me still. And I asked you, 'What is the difference between the wheat and the chaff?' And you considered again, and said, 'The difference between those who love life and those who love death.'"
Abbas seemed taken aback. "I said that?"
"I forgot it for many years," said Tannhauser. "But the day I saw the eunuch put the bowstring around the prince-child's throat, I remembered it. I've never forgotten it since."
"It is for the scholars to interpret the ulema. If I said such things, I was young, and prone to unwitting blasphemies. Forgive me."
Abbas rose to his feet. Tannhauser followed, so weak that he had to use his hands to push up from the table. He swayed slightly and Abbas took his arm.