Nothing was playing out as he had expected it to, Paolo mused distractedly while gazing out the window of his room at one of the many spacious gardens within the high walls of the Topkapı Palace. Except for those walls, everything, from the room he’d been taken to, to the richly embroidered robes of silk and satin he had been carefully dressed in by a slave that morning were at odds with what he had imagined. For rather than descending ever closer to an earthly purgatory more frightening than the one described in Dante’s Devine Comedy, the world he had been taken to stood in stark contrast to the filthy, rat infested monastic cell in Italy that had been both prison and refuge.

Within the span of two short weeks, Paolo had found his expectations and fears repeatedly being overturned by the manner with which he had been treated after he had been dragged off by the scruff of the neck from the monastery’s library by the red bearded Turk. The events that followed in quick succession had been more baffling to the boy than frightening, causing him to wonder if everything he’d been told about the Turks had been lies. That this just might be the case came as no great surprise to the boy. After all, the repeated abuse he’d suffered at the hands of Brother Dominic had made it clear the supposition that all those who dedicated their lives to the Church were saintly servants of God had proven to be nothing but a vicious fabrication created to hide the true nature of the Church of Roman and those who served it.

The journey east aboard a sleek galley had left Paolo ample time to dwell on this and other matters, due in large part to whatever it was the willowy Italian speaker had said to the ship’s captain even as the red headed janissary had been leading him aboard at the end of a leather strap tied about his neck. And though he was left alone after that, separated from the other young boys who had been taken from the monastery and all but ignored by the crew unless he got underfoot, the iron collar that been slapped about his neck was left in place as a warning and a reminder.

Not that it was needed. With nothing but time on his hands as the galley majestically ventured toward the east and an uncertain future, Paolo could not help but ponder if there even was a God. And if there was, he wondered, was He the one the Old Testament spoke of, a cruel, vengeful deity as personified by Brother Dominic, or a kind, loving creator no different than Jesus or Brother Antonio?

Unable to come to any meaningful conclusion, and having no interest in wasting any more time dwelling on this ethereal question, Paolo turned away from the deceptive serenity of the palace garden just beyond the window he was standing before. Casting a fugitive glance over his shoulder at the ornately carved doors of his bedchamber, he instead turned his thoughts to other, more immediate concerns. At the moment this centered on steeling himself as best he could, in what little time he had left, for whatever ordeal his new masters were so carefully preparing him for.

Upon entering an ornately appointed and brightly lit room with high ceilings, a room filled with objects and pieces of art painted in riotous colors and hues so unlike the somber bleakness of the monetary, Paolo slowed his pace, then stopped. Captivated by the opulence all around him, it took him far longer than it should have to notice a man swaddled in brightly colored robs of fine silks perched upon a divan leafing through the book he, Paolo, had been clutching when he’d been discovered in the monastery’s library. This, the boy realized with a start, could only be Lütfi Pasha, the Third Grand Vizier and the man he had been told had summonsed him.

For his part the Vizier made no effort to acknowledge Paolo’s presence. Not knowing what to do once the guard who had led him to the room had withdrawn and closed the massive door behind him, Paolo stood there, waiting for the Turk to address him.

“I am told you speak Latin,” Lütfi Pasha stated in the language used by the monks during mass without looking up from a page he had been reading.

“I do, Effendi,” Paolo replied in Latin, adding an honorific he had heard several of the Turkish soldiers use during the voyage whenever they were being addressed by a superior.

Upon hearing this, the Vizier looked up from the book, affecting an expression that told Paolo he was pleased. “Do you know any other languages?”

The temptation to answer in the language Brother Antonio had been tutoring him in before he had fallen under the domain of Brother Dominic was stifled by an appreciation it would not only smack of unseemly pride, doing so could very well prove to be impolitic, given that he did not know if the Vizier spoke French. He therefore continued to use Latin. “Yes, Efendi. I was being taught French before…”

When the boy suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, dropping his gaze to the floor as he scrambled to come up with an inoffensive word to describe his seizure, Lütfi Pasha closed Francesco Guicciardini’s book, sat up, set the book upon his lap, and folded his hands on top of it. For the longest time he said nothing as he used this opportunity to study the frail child standing there before him. “Tell me, why did the monks geld you?” the Vizier finally asked in French.

This simple question, one Paolo had given much thought to, had no simple answer. The excuse the abbot had used, an explanation artfully couched in Biblical terms that somehow involved the saving of Paolo’s immortal soul, was the sort of thing the boy expected a man in his position had no choice but to rely on in order to justify such a heinous act. The truth was, or so Paolo had come to believe, was his emasculation had been a political statement by Brother Dominic, an act meant to demonstrate to Brother Antonio and the other monks that upon the death of Paolo’s patron, the faction in Rome Brother Dominic sided with was now in the ascendancy. Though he expected the Vizier would understand such a reason, Paolo decided to rely the same one that had been used to convince the physician hired to deprive him of his manhood that doing so was sanctified by the Pope himself. “I was made a castrati in order to better serve God, Efendi,” Paolo whispered mournfully without looking up.

“Was it a dream of yours to serve God in that manner?”

To be asked such a question was, in Paolo’s mind, akin to being slapped in the face. Unable to keep from doing so, he snapped his head back, glared at the Vizier, and spat out his answer. “No!”

The sudden flash of anger that caused the boy’s face to glow as red as his fiery mane, the fierceness in his eyes, and the sharpness of his answer pleased Lütfi Pasha for reasons he wished to keep to himself. Instead, he eased back on his satin covered divan. “Were you to be at liberty to roam through the towns of this land, you would find small scraps of paper wedged in the nooks and crannies of even the most humble of dwellings, for the Turkish people hold paper in great reverence.”

Just as quickly as it had come, Paolo’s anger was replaced by an expression that betrayed his confusion over the Vizier’s seemingly curious statement, just as Lütfi Pasha had expected. “The teachings of Allah, as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, were recorded by his followers on whatever scraps of paper were at hand when the Prophet recited them,” Lütfi Pasha explained. “Because paper can be used to record the name of Allah as it was then, and is now in the Qur’an, the Turks hold paper in great reverence. To them, simply stepping on it is a sacrilege.”

As he was listening, Paolo came to appreciate the man was telling him this story for a reason. As if to confirm this notion, with a wave of his hand, the Vizier motioned toward a cushioned stool.

When the boy was seated, Lütfi Pasha tapped the book in his lap, the one Paolo had been clutching when he had been discovered by the Turkish solider. “Tell me, why this particular book?”

Sensing the Vizier was seeking to draw him out for some as yet unknown reason, Paolo set aside the cautiousness with which he had responded to the Turk’s questions thus far and did something he had not been free to do for many months, he spoke his mind. “While both Guicciardini and Machiavelli consider man to be a central element in history and agree on several other important issues, the two stridently disagreed as to what form of government is ideal. Unlike Machiavelli, who considered Rome and its politics to be the model upon which a state should be governed, Guicciardini believed a republic, such as his native Florence, was bettered suited for the Italian city states and their people.”

“And you?” Lütfi Pasha asked searchingly. “Who do you believe is right?”

This question, Paolo realized, was a trap. Not knowing what the right answer was, if indeed there was one in the mind of the fourth most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire, he decided to avoid responding with an answer that was definitive. “I am but a child, Effendi. There is much I do not yet know, which is why I take advantage of every opportunity I am afforded to study the works of men such as Guicciardini.”

For a child, the boy possessed uncommon wisdom, Lütfi Pasha concluded. Properly tutored, he could be molded into a useful instrument. As a eunuch he would have unfettered access to the Harem, a place that was now ruled by a woman whose ambitions and influence were threatening the status quo and, by extension, his influence. To have someone who was beholden to him able to move freely between his apartments and those of the Hürrem Sultan, thus bypassing the Kizlar Agasi, or Chief Black Eunuch, a half man who jealously guarded his position by limiting what passed between the Harem and the outside world, Lütfi Pasha believed he would be able to better manipulate court politics to his advantage. Believing the boy before him was ideal for this task, Lütfi Pasha allowed himself something of a knowing smile. It was one Paolo was quite familiar with, for it was an echo of Brother Dominic’s.

“You are to receive special schooling,” the Vizier declared as he set the book in his lap aside and drew himself up. “In the morning you will receive religious instruction which will prepare you to be a faithful servant of Allah. In the afternoon, Bilgin Tilki will see to your secular education.”

Wishing to find out just how open minded the Vizier was, Paolo decided to challenge the man. “What if I do not wish to convert to Islam?”

Seeing the boy’s question for what it was, Lütfi Pasha leaned forward, fixing Paolo in a steady, unflinching stare. “Do you wish to die for your faith?”

It wasn’t the memory of how the Turkish janissaries had slaughtered the monks that decided the issue. In the young boy’s mind, death could not possibly be any worse then the hell he had already endured at the hands of Brother Dominic. Rather, it was the opportunity to continue his education, building upon the foundation Brother Antonio had so carefully crafted that led Paolo to submit to the Vizier’s dictates. It did not matter to what end that education would be used. Enlightenment, the banishing of ignorance through learning was, for Paolo, enough of a justification to renounce a religion that had brought him nothing but misery and, in its place, accept Allah as the one, true God, provided, of course, there was a God.

Like Lütfi Pasha, the man who was to be his teacher was not a Turk, causing Paolo to wonder if all of the men who served Suleiman I, known to all as Suleiman the Magnificent, were foreigners taken as he had been, and educated as he was about to be.

“I am, or I should say, was a Ukrainian,” Bilgin Tilki informed Paolo during their first meeting. “Like you I was brought here as a boy, where I converted to Islam and took up the study of states craft in order to prepare me for service in the Sultan’s diplomatic corps.” Pausing at that point, Tilki had taken to studying the frail young boy whose education he was now responsible for, wondering what the Third Vizier had in mind for him. Having been deprived of his manhood, Tilki knew the boy would never grow a beard or be able to speak with a voice that commanded the respect of other men, traits that all who served as representatives of the Sultan in foreign courts, or when dealing with representatives sent by their princes, needed in order to effectively carry out their duties. Just why he been tasked to prepare the boy before him for service in the diplomatic corps was a question the Ukrainian could not help but ask himself as he gazed upon a child whose smooth, unblemished milky white complexion would change little with the passage of time.

As quickly as that thought had come to mind, Tilki cast it aside, for he had come to appreciate the intricate court politics practiced by the Sultan’s chief advisors in order to gain influence with their master made such speculation a waste of time. Instead, he turned his full attention to doing what all underlings who lived and worked within the walls of the Topkapı Palace who wished to keep their heads firmly attached to their shoulders did, he carried out his orders. “I am told you speak Latin and French.”

“I do, effendi,” Paolo replied in a the deepest tone of voice he could manage, one that only served to confirm Tilki’s belief the boy would never be of use as a representative of the Sultan.

“In time we will sharpen your skills with those languages,” Tilki announced as he turned away from Paolo and made his way of to a table cluttered with books, manuscripts, and loose sheets of paper he had been writing on when Paolo had entered the room. “But first you will be taught to read and speak Ukrainian until it comes to you as natural your native tongue.”

Taken aback, Paolo blinked. “Why Ukrainian?”

Not used to being challenged, especially by a child, Tilki was tempted to respond with a sharp rebuke, informing him it was the wish of Lütfi Pasha and, as such, a command. To have done so, however, would have caused the boy to recoil, stifling his curiosity and teaching him to accept everything he was told without question, habits, that if allowed to take root, would retard the education he, Tilki, was expected to oversee. Instead, he took a seat at the table and, in the same manner no different than the Vizier had done, indicated Paolo was to take a seat across the desk from him with a mere flick of his hand.

“I am a direct descendant of Vladimir Sviatoslavich the Great, a prince of Novgorod, Grand Prince of Kiev, and ruler of Kievan Rus,” Tilki explained in a tone of voice that spoke of the pride he still felt at being associated with such a man. “Before I was brought here, as you have been, my name was Alexander Andreyevich, one I am expected to forsake but cannot, just as I am unable to forget the proud heritage my esteemed ancestors forged with blood and steel.”

Pausing, Tilki fixed his gaze on the eyes of the boy across from him, wondering if he could be trusted with the real reason he wished to teach him his native tongue. Just as quickly as this question reared its head, Tilki dismissed it as foolish. Given what the child was being groomed for, it would be unwise to put his faith in his discretion. It would take time, months, perhaps even years, before he would know for sure if the boy could be trusted to keep secrets. Long before then, he would need to establish an open and unfettered dialogue with him, conditions a thorough and meaningful education in the art of diplomacy demanded.

“By passing onto you the language of my ancestors, I will be able to keep their memories from fading into the mist of time,” Tilki explained, relying on an explanation that had the ring of truth to it. “It is a foolish notion, I expect, but one I cannot let go of. In a small way, by speaking Ukrainian I keep their memories and their legacy alive.”

Having wondered about his own heritage, Paolo accepted this without question. The rational the man across from him was putting forth was no different than the one Brother Antonio had used when he had justify why it was important for him to learn French. “I am told your father was a Scottish nobleman who is in the service of the French King,” the monk explained. “Perhaps, God willing, one day you shall meet him. If that day should come, I think it would be beneficial if you and he could speak to each other.”

When Paolo asked why, if his father was Scottish, was he not teaching him that language, the monk was unable to keep from laughing. “I am told many Scots speak either the ancient language of the Celts or English, neither of which are easily mastered. French, on the other hand, is a courtly language. Besides, it is the only foreign language I know,” Brother Antonio had added as he was chuckling to himself.

“It would be an honor and a privilege to learn the language of your ancestors,” Paolo stated in a voice that was both lyrical and sweet.

Pleased he had managed to side step the truth so easily, Tilki smiled. “Good. Then let us start.”

Historical Notes;

Lütfi Pasha (1488 – 27 March 1564) was an Ottoman statesman and grand vizier of the Ottoman Empire under Suleiman the Magnificent from 1539 to 1541. In 941/1534-5 he became Third Vizier. By this time, he had, by his own account, served in Selim I's wars against the Safawids in Eastern Anatolia and against the Mamelukes in Syria and Egypt. Under Suleiman I, he took part in the campaigns of Belgrade in 1521 and Rhodes in 1522. He wrote 21 works mainly on religious topics but also on history, 13 of them written in Arabic and 8 in Turkish. Two of his works are the Asafname, a kind of mirror for ministers, and the Tevâriḫ-i Âl-i ‘Os̱mân, dealing with the Ottoman history and including his own experiences in the reign of the sultans Bayezid II, Selim I and Suleyman I.

Vizier – In the Ottoman Empire, a vizier was a high-ranking political advisor or minister, with the Grand Vizier being the equivalent of the Prime Mister in the U.K.

Effendi – An Ottoman title of nobility meaning Lord or Master.

Vladimir Sviatoslavich the Great (958 – 1015) was a prince of Novgorod, grand prince of Kiev, and ruler of Kievan Rus' from 980 to 1015. Vladimir's father was prince Sviatoslav of the Rurik dynasty. After the death of his father in 972, Vladimir, who was then prince of Novgorod, was forced to flee to Scandinavia in 976 after his brother Yaropolk had murdered his other brother Oleg and conquered Rus'. In Sweden, with the help from his relative Ladejarl Håkon Sigurdsson, ruler of Norway, he assembled a Varangian army and reconquered Novgorod from Yaropolk. By 980 Vladimir had consolidated the Kievan realm from modern-day Ukraine to the Baltic Sea and had solidified the frontiers against incursions of Bulgarian, Baltic, and Eastern nomads. Originally a follower of Slavic paganism, Vladimir converted to Orthodox Christianity in 988 and Christianized the Kievan Rus'.