“The meal!” I thought aloud. “Did the usual poison taster clear it first?”
“Of course.”
“And no ill effects?”
“None. Sokolli Pasha is even now enjoying his fill of the pilaf and sweetmeats. By Allah, there are times I envy that man his job.”
I was encouraged to see this drop of guard, even though my first suggestion of poison had set the scar a-twitch with tension. “This seems awfully early for the meal,” I commented. “Why, the noon prayer had not yet been called, has it?”
This, instead of rousing more suspicion, made the man relax further still. “No. Since they’ve sent Lala Mustafa Pasha off with most of the army to Persia, business has been slack.”
“Look here, my friend,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m the Grand Vizier’s head eunuch and I’ve got to-—”
In the next moment came the announcement that the Divan was disbanding. “To attention!” A double border of blue and yellow—as neat as if sewn by the finest needle—formed itself along the path through which the dignitaries would pass in reverse order, peeling off from their seats like couples in an old Italian dance. My master was the last to enter the Divan so he received the obeisance of everyone lower. He was the first to leave.
Still inside the Divan, yet where we outside could see him, Sokolli Pasha stopped. He said a friendly word or two to the Agha of the Janissaries. Ferhad took them as graciously as he could, but shame and humility made him awkward. Then Sokolli Pasha left the warmth and light of the Divan and entered the drizzle in the court.
I was shocked by what I saw. For one to whom form gave so much honor, the reality beneath the Divan gave my master little or none today. His look was thin and haggard, one of exhaustion, totally beaten. Even half a day was too much when what was called “deliberation” was merely an exercise to see how many ways of countering him and flattering his enemies could be found. And for no other cause than so they could say in the off hours, “By Allah, didn’t I put Sokolli Pasha down today!” No wonder the meeting had been short.
My attention could hardly help but draw his from dark, grey thoughts to me. Life came suddenly to his eyes and to his figure as if I were a live coal and he dry kindling. His smile was not broad, but beautiful, and the hands with which he had been anxiously wringing his robe relaxed. After a moment of what he let the world know was pure delight—I had come to see him, even after our talk last night!—he remembered where he was and his duties. This did not vanquish his smile, however, but filled him with a rash feeling of generosity to the world.
Sokolli Pasha held up his hand for the procession to halt (you could almost hear the grumbling in the ranks behind him) and then made an announcement to our court: “Anyone with a petition—by the will of Allah—he should step forward now.”
He would take them all today, and give each his personal attention. He did that for me. The Islamic world knows no greater virtue than magnanimity. Forgetting the cold and damp as well as my scruples, I basked in the sunshine of his honor.
The merchants and craftsmen, too, were moved by the gesture and grew suddenly embarrassed about the pettiness and self-interest of their suits. One even tore his up on the spot and turned away, while the others hung back. Before, had they been accepted for consideration, they would have seen it as a reflection of their own greater worth. “The Grand Vizier took favor on me out of all the others,” they would brag at home, “because my presence is more forceful” or “because he knows the greatness of my establishment and had heard my name whispered in the highest courts.” Now they could make no such claim for all, from the highest to the lowest, were called forward.
So the eunuch went first: He was on his mistress’s business, after all. My master took his petition and slipped it into the coveted velvet bag, not neglecting to murmur some personal compliment to the man. To the janissary, one khadim was like the next; not so to my master. This, too, was meant as salutation to me and I took it as such. I murmured a formulaic prayer in thanks for such honor. Then the dervish, being holier than other men and only slightly less holy than women was allowed to approach.
Was there something in the way he moved? Some stiffness in the hip that said he concealed something under his clothes? Or was it only the sight of the dirty felt dervish cap and rope belt fastened with the stones of asceticism which suddenly reminded me of my friend Hajji and of the urgency of his message? Whatever it was, I sensed some few moments before anyone else in the court did (even before the master, who was much closer to the man than I) that these holy robes concealed an assassin.
“Master! Master! Beware for your life!” I called out these words as the counterfeit petition touched the Grand Vizier’s hand.
At the first sound of my voice, Sokolli turned ever so slightly in my direction, ever so slightly smiling as if my words were music to his ears. In the next instant, he knew I was in earnest and his hand went to his sword. Waving my dagger, swinging my stick, and followed by the gardener and the gatekeeper, I burst through the line of guards, as yet only dumbfounded. When he did come to life, one of the soldiers took a swipe at the gatekeeper whom in the confusion he took to be part of the attack instead of the rescue. It cost the old man an eye.
But all of these actions
