Free Shadow of God by Anthony Goodman Page A

procession neared the city, it was clear that people knew their Sultan Selim was dead, and that the Son of Selim was coming to claim his sword–to claim the Empire. The small clutches of quiet peasants grew into noisy crowds. The crowds turned into cheeringmobs, until wild throngs pressed along the highway trying to get a glimpse of the new Emperor; to touch his stirrups; to see his face.
    The Janissaries and the Sipahis were hard pressed to keep the crowd back. The household guard became frightened for the Sultan’s safety, for they were surrounded by farmers and workers, all armed with tools of steel—farming tools that could easily become weapons. Hardly a man in that crowd did not possess at least a knife on his person, and some carried axes, scythes, and heavy staffs.
    The mounted Sipahis and the Janissaries on foot formed an unbroken phalanx three deep, surrounding their master, trying to present a solid human wall within which the new Sultan would be safe. The Janissaries pressed closest to their master. The Sipahis on their war horses formed the outer ring. The horses, too, sensed the tension from their masters. They stamped the ground and snorted as the riders held them in tight rein. Only Suleiman’s horse seemed oblivious to the excitement around him, walking with an even and unhurried gait. But, no attack came, and the procession moved on.
    As they passed the old capital at Bursa, the Green City, they caught their first sight of the Sea of Marmara. They passed the lake near Nicaea, where Selim had returned from his campaigns in Afghanistan and Persia, and had brought home craftsmen who set up workshops to make porcelain for all the world.
    Finally, the party reached the ferry station at Üsküdar across the Bosporus from Istanbul. The crowds were kept back by ten thousand Palace Janissaries who had been sent out by Bali Agha from the capital. These elite soldiers reinforced Suleiman’s own guard, as he dismounted from his tired, lathered horse. Two pages led the horse away, while Suleiman walked to the waiting ferry. Through the haze rising from the water, Suleiman could just make out the landmarks of the great city. He could see the slim towers of the minarets flanking the holy mosque of Aya Sofia on the opposite shore. Barely visible were the walls and the buildings of Yeni Serai, the New Palace, which was soon to be his home. Eventually, the world would know this as the Palace of the Cannon Gate, the Topkapi. He stepped down into the ferry and sat upon the embroidered cushions placed for him across the rich carpets that covered the wooden seat.
    His guard held the crowds back, but could not hold back the cheering and joy of his people.
    “Allah bless you! God keep the Son of Selim!”
    Suleiman now breathed easier as he sensed the joy of the Turkish populace at his return. The fear that had been just beneath the surface of his thoughts was quickly put to rest. There was no hostile army to bar his way; no rebellious Agha of the Janissary to stage a coup; no palace revolution to drag him down. He would be home shortly, in the cradle of his legacy. He was Suleiman, the Shadow of God on Earth.

    With Ibrahim at his side, Suleiman stepped up from the ferry onto the shores of Europe; Istanbul. The City. The city of his father. The very heart of the Ottoman Empire. There was a moment of uneasy quiet, when suddenly the noise of uncontrolled shouts of joy came hurtling down the grassy slopes of the gardens. Gardeners with their sickles and pruning knives held aloft rushed to him. The Palace Janissaries leaped the carefully sculpted hedgerows, shouting for their leader, and surrounded him with their bodies in a combination of affection and protection. Soon, the Janissaries had completely sealed Suleiman off from the crowd of Turks, and were shouting in rhythmic waves, “The gift! The gift! Make the payment! Make the payment!” All pretense gone. Nothing subtle here. They were calling for the customary payment of