They have arranged to escort us through the lands of the Tatars and the Turkmen, across the Caspian Sea, up the valley of the Amu Darya, to Kabul. We need never enter Safavid territory.
Ah! Crivano half-shrieks. Splendid! I wonder, though, if you have considered how the emperor of Japan might also help us? Now, there is a resource we have not yet exploited! And neither must we ignore the New World, of course. Perhaps we can hitch our craftsmen to a team of parrots and fly them to safety! Oh, it sounds mad, sure. But is it really?
Narkis steps forward and slaps him. Crivano recoils, then raises his stick; it strikes the low ceiling and clatters from his hands. Trembling, he sags against the slimy wall, his eyes full, his breath coming in rapid gasps. After a moment he feels Narkis’s gentle hand on his head. Calm, Tarjuman effendi, he says. I am truly sorry for this. It is not what was intended.
Crivano gulps air, hiccups, picks up his stick. They continue together toward the corte. What do you expect of the craftsmen? Crivano says, when he can speak again.
They will be angry. That is inevitable. But this cannot be avoided. After all, they already believe they’re going to Amsterdam. Is Lahore a much greater deception than Constantinople?
I’d say so, yes. What will you do? Cage them like beasts bound for a menagerie?
If I must, yes.
As they approach the end of the sottoportego, Narkis’s features come gradually into view: first his eyes, reflecting blue light from the corte, followed by his pale face, the fabric of his caftan. A black ribbon runs from the edge of his turban down his cheek and onto his shoulder. Crivano remarks it vaguely; he’s not seen Narkis wear such an ornament before.
I’m not going to Lahore, Narkis, Crivano says. I won’t.
Yes. I expected that you would not.
What, then, should I do?
Sequester yourself for a few days. Once the craftsmen have escaped, come forth and cooperate with the constables. They will be lenient; you can tell them much that will be of value to them. You can continue your life here. Have you a place you can go now? A safe place?
I think so. The Contarini house.
Yes. The senator will protect you. The Morosini, also. These men are powerful, and opposed to the faction that now controls the Council of Ten. You will survive.
Could I return to Constantinople?
Narkis is silent for a long time. That would be difficult, he says.
They enter the corte, stepping around debris to lean against the wellhead. Its hexagonal base bears the emblem of an ancient family, disgraced or devastated by the accident of history. Crivano pays it little mind. Overhead, coppery Mars shines, along with a few bright stars, dulled by the glow of the waxing gibbous moon. Dense scattered clouds still rake the sky, slate-gray against the deep blue.
What are we, Narkis? Crivano asks. Whom have we betrayed, and on whose behalf? Of whom are we agents?
Narkis’s chin is tucked against his chest; he pushes a chip of terracotta back and forth with his boot’s toe. We are agents of the haseki sultan, he says. And agents of the Mughal emperor. We are agents of no one. We are agents of ourselves. And, as we are both scholars, I believe us to be agents of the truth. I truly believe this, Tarjuman effendi.
Crivano now sees that the dark ribbon that runs down Narkis’s face is a column of blood, spilled from a gash on his forehead, an inch forward of his temple. It’s clear in the moonlight against the yellow silk of his caftan; it stains his shoulder, then vanishes into his armpit.
When I was a young man, Narkis says, the grand vizier chose me from among the sultan’s guard to join an expedition to the court of Akbar, the Mughal emperor, who was then still quite young. The journey was difficult. Many of us were killed by sickness and cold, by packs of wolves, by Safavids and Cossacks. Some fell into ravines. Some were struck by lightning. One man was devoured by a tiger: a terrible sight, glorious in its way, and one I will never forget. When finally we presented ourselves to the emperor in Delhi, we were greatly depleted. He welcomed us with pity and wonder. A remarkable man! Entirely illiterate, but with a flawless memory. Moderate in his diet. Subsisting from fruits, and very little meat. Intensely curious. Capable of extraordinary sympathy. A Muslim, but friendly toward Christians and Hindus, and those of less common faiths. He suspects, as we do, that diverse beliefs and practices have as their common basis a single truth, and he devotes himself and the vast resources of his empire to uncovering it. Most remarkable. I stayed with him for a number of years.
You became his agent.
I became an agent of the truth. As I have said.