against foreigners. And such hatred would only serve to strengthen this latest, greatest and most audacious piece of foreign policy to ever have been attempted.
The Sultan sat on his throne and regarded the man standing obediently before him on the marble map of the known world that covered the entire floor of this vast presence chamber. The man was, appropriately, standing in the sea.
This man had once given an oath of utter allegiance to his father Selim and all his heirs. A one-time admiral, and now, in peacetime, just an old sea captain. Well, the old fellow was about to be an admiral again. The notion made the Sultan feel magnanimous, a sensation that he enjoyed, concomitant, as it was, with power. There would be one last fight for the old sea-dog. Sultan Murad III was about to call in his debt.
As he gave his instructions to the captain he thought he could detect the exact moment, the very
second
in their discourse where Timurhan had realized that he would never be coming back. This man who had been crossing all the charted waters of the Ottoman Empire and beyond since he was a boy, was now to embark on his last voyage. Murad enjoyed the moment. It was part of the whole picture. The gold of the room, the vast marble map, and the attendant white eunuchs, all deaf and dumb, having had their eardrums pierced and their tongues torn out at his command. The cloth he was wearing, the palace walls around him, the Harem full of women that he could take at a word. And, best of all, the power to end a man’s life and expect him to accept it. And the sea captain did.
Timurhan bin Yunus Murad was perfect for the task – noone knew the waters like him, he was a veteran of Lepanto and had seen enough atrocity in that greatest of sea battles to hate Venice and its Doge. And he had only one dependant; one whose care Murad would be only too happy to assume.
‘Our good doctor has played his part and found a case, from one of the temples outside the city. The white eunuchs will arrange for your cargo to be delivered to the dock tonight at midnight. You will sail in one of the Venetian ships that we captured at Lepanto. It is named
Il Cavaliere
.’
From the Sultan’s voice you might have supposed that he had been there. In fact it was Timurhan who had been at the skirmish which had resulted in the capture of this very galleass.
The Corsair
. The name meant as much to him as it did to Murad. The Sultan, who was familiar with every detail of his mother’s history, found the name amusing. He liked coincidences and serendipity – it made him feel that God was with him. ‘You will take the ship to Venice and wait.’
He rose from his throne and walked the map noiselessly, charting the ship’s route in his golden slippers. When he reached the marble rendering of Venice he walked deliberately all over the city. It pleased him to sully the place with his feet. ‘When you reach the mouth of the lagoon –’ he stood at the very place ‘– wait for a storm. Under the cover of a tempest, and in a Venetian ship, you have a good chance of slipping past the quarantine island.’ He indicated a small land mass on the map with a legend beneath which read
Vigna Murada
. ‘Here, they will keep you, if they catch you, for forty days, and all will be lost. The sailors are detained in almshouses and the cargo washed and smoked to be free of all contagion. I need not tell you, that if thiscame to pass, our venture would be at an end. Take your freight instead to San Marco’s basin, right before the palace of the Doge. It is here –’ he placed the point of his slipper precisely ‘– that you will release your payload.’
The Sultan waited long enough to be sure he would hear no demurral. The sea captain had followed him obediently, like the cur that he was. ‘Then, you will proceed to the lee of this island, named Giudecca. There you will find a safe house, here at the place called Santa Croce.’ The Sultan was confident that Timurhan
The Sultan sat on his throne and regarded the man standing obediently before him on the marble map of the known world that covered the entire floor of this vast presence chamber. The man was, appropriately, standing in the sea.
This man had once given an oath of utter allegiance to his father Selim and all his heirs. A one-time admiral, and now, in peacetime, just an old sea captain. Well, the old fellow was about to be an admiral again. The notion made the Sultan feel magnanimous, a sensation that he enjoyed, concomitant, as it was, with power. There would be one last fight for the old sea-dog. Sultan Murad III was about to call in his debt.
As he gave his instructions to the captain he thought he could detect the exact moment, the very
second
in their discourse where Timurhan had realized that he would never be coming back. This man who had been crossing all the charted waters of the Ottoman Empire and beyond since he was a boy, was now to embark on his last voyage. Murad enjoyed the moment. It was part of the whole picture. The gold of the room, the vast marble map, and the attendant white eunuchs, all deaf and dumb, having had their eardrums pierced and their tongues torn out at his command. The cloth he was wearing, the palace walls around him, the Harem full of women that he could take at a word. And, best of all, the power to end a man’s life and expect him to accept it. And the sea captain did.
Timurhan bin Yunus Murad was perfect for the task – noone knew the waters like him, he was a veteran of Lepanto and had seen enough atrocity in that greatest of sea battles to hate Venice and its Doge. And he had only one dependant; one whose care Murad would be only too happy to assume.
‘Our good doctor has played his part and found a case, from one of the temples outside the city. The white eunuchs will arrange for your cargo to be delivered to the dock tonight at midnight. You will sail in one of the Venetian ships that we captured at Lepanto. It is named
Il Cavaliere
.’
From the Sultan’s voice you might have supposed that he had been there. In fact it was Timurhan who had been at the skirmish which had resulted in the capture of this very galleass.
The Corsair
. The name meant as much to him as it did to Murad. The Sultan, who was familiar with every detail of his mother’s history, found the name amusing. He liked coincidences and serendipity – it made him feel that God was with him. ‘You will take the ship to Venice and wait.’
He rose from his throne and walked the map noiselessly, charting the ship’s route in his golden slippers. When he reached the marble rendering of Venice he walked deliberately all over the city. It pleased him to sully the place with his feet. ‘When you reach the mouth of the lagoon –’ he stood at the very place ‘– wait for a storm. Under the cover of a tempest, and in a Venetian ship, you have a good chance of slipping past the quarantine island.’ He indicated a small land mass on the map with a legend beneath which read
Vigna Murada
. ‘Here, they will keep you, if they catch you, for forty days, and all will be lost. The sailors are detained in almshouses and the cargo washed and smoked to be free of all contagion. I need not tell you, that if thiscame to pass, our venture would be at an end. Take your freight instead to San Marco’s basin, right before the palace of the Doge. It is here –’ he placed the point of his slipper precisely ‘– that you will release your payload.’
The Sultan waited long enough to be sure he would hear no demurral. The sea captain had followed him obediently, like the cur that he was. ‘Then, you will proceed to the lee of this island, named Giudecca. There you will find a safe house, here at the place called Santa Croce.’ The Sultan was confident that Timurhan
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