Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

Istanbul, Christmas 1555

Cuius regio, eius religio.

To each land its prince’s faith.

You can always negotiate with princes. You can always do good business with them.

This one was decided in Augsburg two months ago, sealing an agreement sanctioning the division of goods, territories and religions throughout the Empire. The new pope Paul IV is allowing the Protestants to retain all the possessions they have confiscated from the Church until the present day, and blessing the peace that has been restored.

This slams shut, once and for all, the lid that Luther, the puppet of the German nobles, lifted almost forty years ago, opening decades of hope, rebellions, revenge killings and restorations. Forty years, that’s how long it has taken to strip the people of the power to choose their own fates, and men of the right to choose their own faith.

This is the end of an era. Charles V, the now enfeebled ruler of an empire on the brink of collapse, is preparing to abdicate, leaving young Philip with a legacy of debts and wars yet to come.

Even the star of the formidable Fuggers is in decline, darkened as it is by credit that they will never be able to collect. For almost half a century they have financed the pretensions and aspirations of the Habsburg: now they’re paying the price.

Cuius regio, eius religio. He who has refused to accept the rule of a prince, or to ally himself to a single land, has no choice. The fate of the Jews in Venice was exemplary of that.

By the time copies of the Talmud were burned on the Rialto, on 21 August ‘53, Jo�o had already succeeded in finding an escape route to the East for almost a thousand Sephardic Jews. After the edict of Julius III, after the burnings, the arrests, the Ghetto, there was no other option. Now the same thing is happening elsewhere, at the hands of Paul IV.

Heinrich Gresbeck knew this. Venice is going to bear the brunt of all this, for opening the way to the most hypocritical and ferocious persecutions. The people of the Bible are carrying with them the treasure of their experience, their knowledge, their skill, on yet another flight. The portals of another Empire are opening up to them, one that will welcome them and acknowledge their courage. But along with the Jews will go many Christians, other landless men and women, who will start a new life beyond the banks of the Mediterranean, amongst those Infidels whom we have been taught to hate and who are now alone in accepting us without requiring acts of faith.

Their undisputed sovereign, Suleyman the Magnificent, the mere mention of whose name sends a shiver down any Venetian spine, is the wealthiest and most powerful man in the world, the ruler of an Empire stretching from the Crimea to the Pillars of Hercules, from Hungary to Baghdad. A keen judge of character, both of men and of nations, he sits on Constantine’s throne with the air both of an invincible warrior and of a sage tyrant. No one may appear in his presence without remembering that he is the conqueror of Mesopotamia, and that it was he who brought his troops beneath the walls of Vienna, that he defeated Charles V at Mohacs, that he is the man who with so much as a nod of his head could close the trade routes with the East, reducing Venice to an inconsequential little port.

If he asks me about the continent adjacent to his possessions, I shall tell him my story, in the certainty that he will appreciate something more than an ambassador’s report.

There is nothing to be learned from it. There is no plan to follow. I’m still alive, that’s all. Since I left the other half of the world behind, that distant land that I saw slipping away into the mist one winter day, I no longer have anything to share. I leave it all to the princes, to strengthen their thrones and choose the faith their subjects must follow; to the new bankers who are preparing to take the place of the Fuggers, reciting Calvin’s words from memory. To Calvin himself, putting Michael Servet, scientist and theologian, to the stake. I leave it to the book-burning inquisitors; to Reginald Pole, who yesterday was the champion of conciliation, and who is today Archbishop of Canterbury and persecutor of the Protestants in England.

But to more than anyone I leave it to the architect of the plan that is finally being put into effect. To Giovanni Pietro Carafa, who ascended the Papal Throne with the name of Paul IV, at the age of seventy-nine, on 23rd May 1555.

‘Still in bed?’

I didn’t hear her come into the room. I roll over, mumbling.

Beatrice lowers her head to look me in the eyes. ‘The Sultan won’t be too pleased if he has to wait for two infidels of your standing.’

Sitting on the bed, I put one arm around her waist, imprisoning her with the other in a firm embrace.

‘That’s right, and he’ll take your head clean off.’

We laugh. I pull myself up and go to the bathroom, the relief of my old age. Every time I put a foot in there, at least twice a day, I feel a mixture of emotion and contentment about my condition. Blue and sea-green tiles gleam on the floor and the walls. The big basin occupies one whole side, two yards in length. It can be filled continuously from two pipes that pour in hot or cold water. The water, heated in a cistern on the floor above, is allowed to flow in as one wishes, and mixed with the cold water that comes down through the other pipe.

In this dream city baths are a sign of a superior civilisation, and of a consideration for bodily hygiene unknown in Europe. They are everywhere, in every size and design, all of them adapted to restore the limbs and the mind from fatigue and the sultry climate.

I immerse myself in the warmth, motionless. Let the Sultan wait.

Jossef gives me a start by bursting in as noisily as possible.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve drowned, old man?’

He is wearing his best clothes: his favourite knee-high boots, wide, pale trousers; a long buttoned blouse, embroidered across the chest; his curved knife in his belt, its inlaid hilt; the headgear typical of these parts wrapped around his head, blue, with a white feather fixed to it with a gold pin.

‘There are other people we have to meet before we see the Sultan. Hurry up, Samuel’s been waiting for you for ages. The comforts of this city are making you lazy.’

He throws a piece of soap into the water, splashing my face. He hands me a big towel: ‘Get a move on!’

*

You can find anything you like in the great covered Bazaar. After walking among a myriad of benches and narrow corridors that run between the shops, following Samuel and Jossef who are guiding my inexpert steps, we walk into a shop displaying grains and spices.

The air is filled with all kinds of aromas. All around stand low little tables, carpets and cushions, occupied by men intent on their business, chattering and smoking narghiles.

Two fat and smiling Ottomans come towards us, making ample bows.

One of them embraces Jossef warmly, and then turns to the other. ‘This is the most honourable Jossef Nassi, a legend. And this is his brother Samuel, no less courageous.’ He brightens up. ‘In Venice these men, known as Jo�o and Bernardo Miquez, are considered to be the chief enemies of La Serenissima, by virtue of the fact that they have always been our friends. If they returned to Venice, you can be sure that they would be impaled upon the pillars of St Mark’s.’

They laugh heartily: my mate is clearly admired.

It’s Jossef the Sephardi’s turn to speak: ‘But that’s not to say that we won’t return one day. In spite of its rulers, Venice is a splendid city. Gentlemen, I present my colleague, Ismael-the-Traveller-of-the-World, the one who has been through every kind of adventure between the cold North and here, the enemy of all the powerful men of Europe.’

The two opulent merchants bow deferentially again.

They ask us to sit down, one of them