to be deprived of his high office. Solyman had a son by a concubine,
who came from the Crimea, if I remember rightly. His name was Mustapha,
and at the time of which I am speaking he was young, vigorous, and
of high repute as a soldier. But Solyman had also several other
children by a Russian woman (Roxolana).[111] To the latter he was
so much attached that he placed her in the position of a wife, and
assigned her a dowry, the giving and receiving of which constitutes
a marriage amongst the Turks. In taking her as his wife, he broke
through the custom of his later predecessors on the throne, none of
whom, since the days of Bajazet the elder, had a lawful wife. For of
all the indignities which the vanquished Sultan endured, when he and
his wife fell into the hands of Tamerlane,[112] nothing seemed more
dreadful than the insults which his wife received before his eyes. His
humiliation made so deep an impression on his successors that, up to
the time of Solyman, they abstained from contracting a legal marriage
with any woman, by way of insuring themselves, under all circumstances,
against a similar misfortune. The mothers of their children were women
in the position of slaves, the idea being that, if they were insulted,
the disgrace to the Sultan would not be so great as in the case of a
lawful wife. You must not be surprised at this, for the Turks do not
consider the position of the children of concubines and mistresses
inferior to that of the offspring of wives; both have precisely the
same rights of inheritance to their father’s property.
Thus, then, matters stood. Mustapha’s high qualities and matured years
marked him out, to the soldiers who loved, and the people who supported
him, as the successor of his father, who was now in the decline of
life. On the other hand, his step-mother, by throwing the claim of a
lawful wife into the scale, was doing her utmost to counterbalance his
personal merits and his rights as eldest son, with a view to obtaining
the throne for her own children. In this intrigue she received the
advice and assistance of Roostem, whose fortunes were inseparably
linked with hers by his marriage with a daughter she had had by
Solyman. Of all the Pashas at Solyman’s court none had such influence
and weight as Roostem; his determined character and clear-sighted
views had contributed in no small degree to his master’s fame. Perhaps
you would like to know his origin. He was once a pig-driver;[113] and
yet he is a man well worthy of his high office, were his hands not
soiled with greed. This was the only point as to which the Sultan was
dissatisfied with him; in every other respect he was the object of his
love and esteem. However, this very fault his master contrived to turn
to his advantage, by giving him the management of the privy purse and
exchequer, Solyman’s chief difficulties being on the score of finance.
In his administration of this department he neglected no gain, however
trivial, and scraped up money from the sale of the vegetables and
flowers which grew in the imperial gardens; he put up separately to
auction each prisoner’s helmet, coat-of-mail, and horse, and managed
everything else after the same fashion.
By these means he contrived to amass large sums of money, and fill
Solyman’s treasury. In short, he placed his finances in a sound
position. His success in this department drew from a very bitter enemy
of his an expression, which will surprise you as coming from a Turk. He
declared that, even had he the power to hurt Roostem, he would not use
it against one whose industry, zeal, and care had re-established his
master’s finances. There is in the palace a special vault, where these
hoards are kept, and on it is this inscription, ‘The moneys acquired by
the care of Roostem.’
Well, inasmuch as Roostem was chief Vizier, and as such had the whole
of the Turkish administration in his hands, he had no difficulty,
seeing that he was the Sultan’s adviser in everything, in influencing
his master’s mind. The Turks, accordingly, are convinced that it was
by the calumnies of Roostem and the spells of Roxolana, who was in ill
repute as a practiser of witchcraft, that the Sultan was so estranged
from his son as to entertain the design of getting rid of him. A few
believe that Mustapha, being aware of the plans of Roostem and the
practices of his stepmother, determined to anticipate them, and thus
engaged in designs against his father’s throne and person. The sons of
Turkish Sultans are in the most wretched position in the world, for,
as soon as one of them succeeds his father, the rest are doomed to
certain death. The Turk can endure no rival to the throne, and, indeed,
the conduct of the Janissaries renders it impossible for the new Sultan
to spare his brothers; for if one of them survives, the Janissaries
are for ever asking largesses. If these are refused, forthwith the
cry is heard, ‘Long live the brother!’ ‘God preserve the brother!’—a
tolerably broad hint that they intend to place him on the throne. So
that the Turkish Sultans are compelled to celebrate their succession
by imbruing their hands in the blood of their nearest relatives. Now
whether the fault lay with Mustapha, who feared this fate for himself,
or with Roxolana, who endeavoured to save her children at the expense
of Mustapha, this much at any rate is certain—the suspicions of the
Sultan were excited, and the fate of his son was sealed.
Being at war with Shah Tahmasp, King of the Persians, he had sent
Roostem against him as commander-in-chief of his armies. Just as he
was about to enter the Persian territory, Roostem suddenly halted, and
hurried off despatches to Solyman, informing him that affairs were
in a very critical state; that treason was rife everywhere; that the
soldiers had been tampered with, and cared for no one but Mustapha;
that he (the Sultan) could control the soldiers, but that the evil
was past his (Roostem’s) curing; that his presence and authority were
wanted; and he must come at once, if he wished to preserve his throne.
Solyman was seriously alarmed by these despatches. He immediately
hurried to the army, and sent a letter to summon Mustapha to his
presence, inviting him to clear himself of those crimes of which he was
suspected, and indeed openly accused, at the same time assuring him
that, if he proved innocent, no danger awaited him. Mustapha had now
to make his choice. If he obeyed the summons of his angry and offended
father, the risk was great; but if he excused himself from coming, it
would be tantamount to an admission of treason. He determined to take
the course which demanded most courage and involved most danger.
He left Amasia, the seat of his government, and went to his father’s
camp, which lay at no great distance,[114] either trusting in his
innocence, or feeling confident that no evil would happen to him in the
presence of the army. However that may be, he fell into a trap from
which there was no escape.
Solyman had brought with him his son’s death doom, which he had
prepared before leaving home. With a view to satisfying religious
scruples, he had previously consulted his mufti. This is the name given
to the chief priest among the Turks, and answers to our Pope of Rome.
In order to get an impartial answer from the mufti, he put the case
before him as follows:—He told him that there was at Constantinople a
merchant of good position, who, when about to leave home for some time,
placed over his property and household a slave to whom he had shown the
greatest favour, and entrusted his wife and children to his loyalty.
No sooner was the master gone than this slave began to embezzle his
master’s property, and plot against the lives of his wife and children;
nay, more, had attempted to compass his master’s destruction. The
question which he (Solyman) wished the mufti to answer was this: What
sentence could be lawfully pronounced against this slave? The mufti
answered that in his judgment he deserved to be tortured to death.
Now, whether this was the mufti’s own opinion, or whether it was
pronounced at the instigation of Roostem or Roxolana, there is no doubt
that it greatly influenced Solyman, who was already minded to order
the execution of his son; for he considered that the latter’s offence
against himself was quite as great as that of the slave against his
master, in the case he had put before the mufti.
There was great uneasiness among the soldiers, when Mustapha arrived
in the camp. He was brought to his father’s tent, and there everything
betokened peace. There was not a soldier on guard, no aide-de-camp, no
policeman, nothing that could possibly alarm him and make him suspect
treachery. But there were in the tent certain mutes—a favourite kind
of servant among the Turks—strong and sturdy fellows, who had been
appointed as his executioners. As soon as he entered the inner tent,
they threw themselves upon him, and endeavoured to put the fatal noose
around his neck. Mustapha, being a man of considerable strength, made
a stout defence, and fought—not only for his life, but also for the
throne; there being no doubt that if he escaped from his executioners,
and threw himself among the Janissaries, the news of this outrage on
their beloved prince would cause such pity and indignation, that they
would not only protect him, but also proclaim him Sultan. Solyman felt
how critical the matter was, being only separated by the linen hangings
of his tent from the stage, on which this tragedy was being enacted.
When he found that there was an unexpected delay in the execution of
his scheme, he thrust out his head from the chamber of his tent, and
glared on the mutes with fierce and threatening eyes; at the same
time, with signs full of hideous meaning, he sternly rebuked their
slackness. Hereon the mutes, gaining fresh strength from the terror he
inspired, threw Mustapha down, got the bowstring round his neck, and
strangled him. Shortly afterwards they laid his body on a rug in front
of the tent, that the Janissaries might see the man they had desired as
their Sultan. When this was noised through the camp, the whole army was
filled with pity and grief; nor did one of them fail to come and gaze
on that sad sight. Foremost of all were the Janissaries, so astounded
and indignant that, had there been anyone to lead them, they would have
flinched from nothing. But they saw their chosen leader lying lifeless
on the ground. The only course left to them was to bear patiently that
which could not be cured. So, sadly and silently, with many a tear,
they retired to their tents, where they were at liberty to indulge
their grief at the unhappy end of their young favourite. First they
declared that Solyman was a dotard and a madman. They then expressed
their abhorrence of the cruel treachery of the stepmother (Roxolana),
and the wickedness of Roostem, who, between them, had extinguished
the brightest light of the house of Othman. Thus they passed that day
fasting, nor did they even touch water; indeed, there were some of them
who remained without food for a still longer time.
For several days there was a general mourning throughout the camp,
and there seemed no prospect of any abatement of the soldiers’
sorrow, unless Roostem were removed from office. This step Solyman
accordingly took, at the suggestion (as it is generally believed) of
Roostem himself. He dismissed him from office, and sent him back to
Constantinople in disgrace.
His post was filled by Achmet Pasha, who is more distinguished for
courage than for judgment. When Roostem had been chief Vizier he
had been second. This change soothed and calmed the spirits of the
soldiers. With the credulity natural to the lower orders, they were
easily induced to believe that Solyman had discovered Roostem’s
machinations and his wife’s sorceries, and was coming to his senses
now that it was all too late, and that this was the cause of Roostem’s
fall. Indeed, they were persuaded that he would not even spare his
wife, when he returned to Constantinople. Moreover, the men themselves
met Roostem at Constantinople, apparently overwhelmed with grief and
without the slightest hope of recovering his position.
Meanwhile, Roxolana, not contented with removing Mustapha from her
path, was compassing the death of the only son he had left, who was
still a child; for she did not consider that she and her children were
free from danger, so long as his offspring survived. Some pretext,
however, she thought necessary, in order to furnish a reason for the
murder, but this was not hard to find. Information is brought to
Solyman that, whenever his grandson appeared in public, the boys of
Ghemlik[115]—where he was being educated—shouted out, ‘God save the
Prince, and may he long survive his father;’ and that the meaning of
these cries was to point him out as his grandsire’s future successor,
and his father’s avenger. Moreover, he was bidden to remember that the
Janissaries would be sure to support the son of Mustapha, so that the
father’s death had in no way secured the peace of the throne and realm;
that nothing ought to be preferred to the interests of religion, not
even the lives of our children; that the whole Mussulman religion (as
they call it, meaning ‘the best religion’) depended on the safety of
the throne and the rule of the house of Othman; and that, if the family
were to fall, the foundations of the faith would be overthrown; that
nothing would so surely lead to the downfall of the house as disunion
among its members; for the sake, therefore, of the family, the empire,
and religion itself, a stop must be put to domestic feuds; no price
could be too great for the accomplishment of such an end, even though
a father’s hands had to be dipped in his children’s blood; nay, the
sacrifice of one’s children’s lives was not to be esteemed of any great
account, if the safety of the faith was thereby assured. There was
still less reason, they added, for compunction in this case, inasmuch
as the boy, as Mustapha’s son, was already a participator in his
father’s guilt, and there could be no doubt that he would shortly place
himself at the head of his father’s partisans.
Solyman was easily induced by these arguments to sign the death-warrant
of his grandson. He commissioned Ibrahim Pasha to go to Ghemlik with
all speed, and put the innocent child to death.
On arriving at Ghemlik, Ibrahim took special care to conceal his errand
from the lad’s mother, for that she should be allowed to know of her
son’s execution, and almost see it with her eyes, would have seemed
too barbarous. Besides, his object, if it got wind, might provoke an
insurrection, and so his plans be frustrated.
By the following artifice he threw her off her guard. He pretended
he was sent by Solyman to visit her and her son; he said his master
had found out, when too late, that he had made a terrible mistake in
putting Mustapha to death, and intended, by his affection for the son,
to atone for his injustice to the father.
Many stories of this kind he told, in order to gain credence with the
fond mother, whose fears had, at that time, been to a great extent
dispelled by the news of Roostem’s fall. After thus flattering her
hopes, he presented her with a few trifling gifts.
A couple of days later he threw in a word about the confined atmosphere
of the city, and the desirability of change of air, and so obtained her
consent to their setting out next day for a seat near the city. She
herself was to go in a carriage, and her son to ride in front of the
carriage on horseback. There was nothing in these arrangements that
could excite suspicion, and so she agreed. A carriage was got ready,
the axle-tree of which was so put together as to ensure its breaking
when they came to a certain rough place, which they needs must cross.
Accordingly, the mother entered the carriage, and set forth, poor
woman, on her journey into the country. The eunuch rode well in front
with the lad, as if to take the opportunity for a chat; the mother
followed with what speed she might. When they reached the rough ground
I told you of, the wheel struck violently against the stones, and
the axle broke. The mother, whom this accident filled with the worst
forebodings, was in the greatest alarm, and could not be kept from
leaving the carriage, and following her son on foot, attended only by a
few of her women. But the eunuch had already reached his destination.
As soon as he had crossed the threshold of the house which was to be
the scene of the murder, he uttered the sentence of death: ‘The order
of the Sultan is that you must die.’ The boy, they say, made answer
like a true Turk, that he received the decree, not as the order of the
Sultan, but the command of God; and, with these words on his lips,
suffered the fatal noose to be placed round his neck. And so—young,
innocent, and full of promise—the little fellow was strangled. When
the deed was done the eunuch slipped out by a back door, and fled for
his life. Presently came the mother. She had already guessed what had
taken place. She knocked at the door. When all was over, they let her
in. There lay her son before her eyes, his body still warm with life,
the pulses throbbing, the breath hardly departed from him. But we had
better draw a veil over the sad scene. What a mother’s feelings must
have been to see her son thus entrapped and murdered, it were easier to
imagine than describe.
She was then compelled to return to Ghemlik. She came into the city
with her hair dishevelled and her robe rent, filling the air with her
shrieks and moanings. The women of Ghemlik, high and low, gathered
round her; and when they heard of the fearful deed that had been
perpetrated, like frenzied Bacchantes they rushed out of the gates.
‘Where’s the eunuch? Where’s the eunuch?’ is their cry. And woe to
him had he fallen into their hands. But he, knowing what impended,
and fearing to be torn in pieces by the furious women, like a second
Orpheus,[116] lost no time in making his escape.
But I must now return to my subject. A messenger was despatched to
Solyman, with a letter announcing my arrival. During the interval,
while we were waiting for his answer, I had an opportunity of seeing
Constantinople at my leisure. My chief wish was to visit the Church of
St. Sophia; to which, however, I only obtained admission as a special
favour, as the Turks think that their temples are profaned by the
entrance of a Christian. It is a grand and massive building, well worth
visiting. There is a huge central cupola, or dome, lighted only from a
circular opening at the top. Almost all the Turkish mosques are built
after the pattern of St. Sophia. Some say it was formerly much bigger,
and that there were several buildings in connection with it, covering
a great extent of ground, which were pulled down many years ago, the
shrine in the middle of the church alone being left standing.
As regards the position of the city, it is one which nature herself
seems to have designed for the mistress of the world. It stands
in Europe, Asia is close in front, with Egypt and Africa on its
right; and though these last are not, in point of distance, close to
Constantinople, yet, practically, the communication by sea links them
to the city. On the left, are the Black Sea and the Sea of Azoff. Many
nations live all round the coasts of these seas, and many rivers pour
into them; so that, through the length and breadth of these countries,
which border on the Black Sea, there is nothing grown for man’s use,
which cannot, with the greatest ease, be brought to Constantinople
by water. On one side the city is washed by the Sea of Marmora, on
the other the creek forms a harbour which, from its shape, is called
by Strabo ‘the Golden Horn.’ On the third side it is united to the
mainland, so that its position may be described as a peninsula or
promontory formed by a ridge running out between the sea on one side,
and the frith on the other. Thus from the centre of Constantinople
there is a most exquisite view over the sea, and of Mount Olympus in
Asia, white with perpetual snow. The sea is perfectly crowded with
shoals of fish making their way, after the manner of their kind, from
the Sea of Azoff and the Black Sea through the Bosphorus and the Sea
of Marmora into the Ægean and Mediterranean, or again returning to the
Black Sea. The shoals are so big, and so closely packed, that sometimes
fish can be caught with the hand. Mackerel, tunnies, bigheads, bream,
and sword-fish are to be had in abundance. The fishermen are, for the
most part, Greeks, as they take to this occupation more readily than
the Turks, although the latter do not despise fish when brought to
table, provided they are of the kinds which they consider clean; as for
the rest, they would as lief take a dose of poison as touch them. I
should tell you, by the way, that a Turk would sooner have his tongue
or teeth torn out, than taste anything which he considers unclean, as,
for instance, a frog, a snail, or a tortoise. The Greeks are subject
to the same superstition. I had engaged a lad of the Greek Church as
purveyor for my people. His fellow-servants had never been able to
induce him to eat snails; at last they set a dish of them before him,
cooked and seasoned in such a way that he fancied it was some kind
of fish, and helped himself to it most liberally. But when the other
servants, laughing and giggling, produced the snail shells, and showed
him that he had been taken in, his distress was such as to baffle all
description. He rushed to his chamber, where there was no end to his
tears, misery, and sickness. He declared that it would cost him two
months’ wages, at the least, to obtain absolution for his sin; it being
the custom of Greek priests to charge those who come for confession a
price varying with the nature and extent of the offence, and to refuse
absolution to those who do not comply with their demand.
At the end of the promontory I mentioned, stands the palace of the
Turkish Sultan, which, as far as I can see—for I have not yet been
admitted within its walls—has no grandeur of design or architectural
details to make it worth a visit. Below the palace, on lower ground
near the shore, lie the Sultan’s gardens fringing the sea. This is
the quarter where people think that old Byzantium stood. You must not
expect here to have the story of why in former days the people of
Chalcedon were called blind,[117] who lived opposite Byzantium—the
very ruins of Chalcedon have now well nigh disappeared; neither must
you expect to hear of the peculiar nature of the sea, in that it flows
downwards with a current that never stops nor changes; nor about the
pickled condiments which are brought to Constantinople from the Sea
of Azoff, which the Italians call moronellas, botargas, and caviare.
Such matters would be out of place here; indeed, I think I have already
exceeded the limits of a letter; besides, they are facts which can be
read both in ancient and modern authors.