gift. He had what he wanted, compensation for the cancelled hire contract. If the Captain of Galleys went bankrupt, which would surely happen if his antique galley was not repaired in time, the slave would automatically become his property.
Privately the khaznadji despised Turgut. He thought the man was an old fogey who considered himself superior to the Algerines and because the captain came from the Seraglio, the imperial court, he presumed that the young black-haired slave had been purchased for his sexual gratification. It would be amusing to humiliate the captain still further by exposing his handsome young man to abuse.
‘You are too kind. I admire your generosity, and indeed it is a difficult choice. With your permission, I select the dark-haired one. But it would be improper to retain him for my household, so I shall place him to the benefit of the city. I will assign him to the beylik, to do public labour.’
He bowed and moved on, feeling that he had extracted the best possible outcome from the encounter.
O N HIS WAY back home after the awkward meeting with the khaznadji, Turgut Reis knew what he would do to restore his normal good humour. His house was one of the privileges that came with his rank as Captain of Galleys. A four-storey mansion, it was positioned on almost the highest point of the city, with a magnificent view out over the harbour and the sea beyond. To take full advantage of the location, Turgut had caused a garden to be created on the flat roof. His servants had carried up hundreds of baskets of earth and laid out flowerbeds. Sweet-smelling shrubs had been selected and planted, and a dozen trees rooted in large tubs to shade the spot where Turgut liked to sit cross-legged, gazing over the view and listening to the distant sounds of the city spread out below him. Now, reaching the roof garden, he called for his favourite carpet to be brought out. It was an Usak in the old-fashioned Anatolian style and made with the Turkish knot. In Turgut’s opinion the more recent and popular Seraglio designs with their profusion of tulips and hyacinths and roses were much too showy, though he had to admit that the Persian knotting did give them a softer, more velvety surface. But only the Usak carpet with its pattern of repeated stars was the appropriate setting for his most prized possession – the Kitab-i Bahriye.
He waited patiently while his steward brought up the beautifully carved bookstand, and then the volume itself. Turgut looked down at the cover of the book and allowed himself a few moments of anticipation before he opened it and relished the treasures within. Of course, there were other versions of the Book of Sea Lore as the infidels called it. Indeed the Padishah himself owned the most lavishly illustrated copy in existence, a volume prepared specially for the Sultan of Sultans. But the copy lying before Turgut was unique. It was the original. Prepared 150 years ago by Turgut’s forebear, the peerless Piri Reis, the book of maps and charts and its accompanying collection of sailing notes had been passed down in his family for six generations. It was the wellspring from which all other versions had been drawn.
Turgut leaned forward and opened the book at random. He knew every page by memory, yet he never failed to be awed by the vision of the man who had created it. ‘God has not granted the possibility of displaying everyone of the afore-mentioned places such as harbours and waters around the shores of the Mediterranean, and the reefs and shoals in the water, in a single map,’ he read. ‘Therefore experts in this science have drawn up what they call a “chart” with a pair of compasses according to a scale of miles, and it is written directly on a parchment.’
Here was the genius of his ancestor, thought Turgut. The man who wrote those words was much more than the Sultan’s High Admiral and a great war leader. He also had the curiosity and penetration to study and learn, and the
Privately the khaznadji despised Turgut. He thought the man was an old fogey who considered himself superior to the Algerines and because the captain came from the Seraglio, the imperial court, he presumed that the young black-haired slave had been purchased for his sexual gratification. It would be amusing to humiliate the captain still further by exposing his handsome young man to abuse.
‘You are too kind. I admire your generosity, and indeed it is a difficult choice. With your permission, I select the dark-haired one. But it would be improper to retain him for my household, so I shall place him to the benefit of the city. I will assign him to the beylik, to do public labour.’
He bowed and moved on, feeling that he had extracted the best possible outcome from the encounter.
O N HIS WAY back home after the awkward meeting with the khaznadji, Turgut Reis knew what he would do to restore his normal good humour. His house was one of the privileges that came with his rank as Captain of Galleys. A four-storey mansion, it was positioned on almost the highest point of the city, with a magnificent view out over the harbour and the sea beyond. To take full advantage of the location, Turgut had caused a garden to be created on the flat roof. His servants had carried up hundreds of baskets of earth and laid out flowerbeds. Sweet-smelling shrubs had been selected and planted, and a dozen trees rooted in large tubs to shade the spot where Turgut liked to sit cross-legged, gazing over the view and listening to the distant sounds of the city spread out below him. Now, reaching the roof garden, he called for his favourite carpet to be brought out. It was an Usak in the old-fashioned Anatolian style and made with the Turkish knot. In Turgut’s opinion the more recent and popular Seraglio designs with their profusion of tulips and hyacinths and roses were much too showy, though he had to admit that the Persian knotting did give them a softer, more velvety surface. But only the Usak carpet with its pattern of repeated stars was the appropriate setting for his most prized possession – the Kitab-i Bahriye.
He waited patiently while his steward brought up the beautifully carved bookstand, and then the volume itself. Turgut looked down at the cover of the book and allowed himself a few moments of anticipation before he opened it and relished the treasures within. Of course, there were other versions of the Book of Sea Lore as the infidels called it. Indeed the Padishah himself owned the most lavishly illustrated copy in existence, a volume prepared specially for the Sultan of Sultans. But the copy lying before Turgut was unique. It was the original. Prepared 150 years ago by Turgut’s forebear, the peerless Piri Reis, the book of maps and charts and its accompanying collection of sailing notes had been passed down in his family for six generations. It was the wellspring from which all other versions had been drawn.
Turgut leaned forward and opened the book at random. He knew every page by memory, yet he never failed to be awed by the vision of the man who had created it. ‘God has not granted the possibility of displaying everyone of the afore-mentioned places such as harbours and waters around the shores of the Mediterranean, and the reefs and shoals in the water, in a single map,’ he read. ‘Therefore experts in this science have drawn up what they call a “chart” with a pair of compasses according to a scale of miles, and it is written directly on a parchment.’
Here was the genius of his ancestor, thought Turgut. The man who wrote those words was much more than the Sultan’s High Admiral and a great war leader. He also had the curiosity and penetration to study and learn, and the
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