“…Let them show at once. We shall dive in, destroy the enemy and place the king’s crown and throne upon his head and go all the way to the Red Apple…”
The Grand Sekbanbaşı
— To the Red Apple. — To the Red Apple… — We shall go to the Red Apple!
The Suleiman of his time heard these cries echoing suddenly like a roaring storm. He was alone in his pavilion. He had been contemplating the heroic desire for war shown by the council that had dispersed half an hour ago. Today, he had summoned not only his viziers, but also the kazaskers, treasurers, chancellors, janissary officers such as “agha, steward, commander, yayabaşı, bölükbaşı, quartermaster,” and even his bodyguards, gathering them all in his presence.
They had all thrown themselves at his feet saying: “We are ready to follow you to Mount Qaf, my Sultan!” with tears of joy streaming from their eyes.
Now the “campaign decision” must have spread throughout the army. A little distance from the pavilion, at the edge of the small oak forest, in that vast gathering, the joy of the recent council was boiling, swelling, rising like an ocean of excitement, and the invisible yet audible waves of this ocean seemed to crash not against the cloudy shores of nearby horizons, but against the very dome of the entire world:
— To the Red Apple. — To the Red Apple… — All the way to the Red Apple…
The Sultan slowly rose from his throne. He leaned his right hand on his golden armrest. He bowed his head as if listening to a voice descended from heaven whose meaning could not be understood. He listened carefully to the army’s clamor.
“Red Apple, Red Apple…”
He had heard this name thousands of times since his days as a prince. Then he sat back on his throne. He pushed back his Yusufiye, which was tilted down over his eyes. He held his very prominent, wide forehead with his dark, long fingers. He thought. He thought:
— Where is the Red Apple, he murmured.
Whether going on campaign to the East or West, the soldiers in excitement would always shout “To the Red Apple…” He had heard this cry in the janissary barracks, in the sipahi quarters, at military parades, even in Istanbul, in the inner gardens of the palace. Where was the Red Apple? He called Mahmud, who was standing guard behind the medlar-colored embroidered curtain.
— Tell the Grand Vizier to gather the viziers, the beylerbeyi, and the kazaskers. Let him come immediately, he said.
The viziers who had left the great council half an hour ago wondered with anxious distress why they were being summoned to the presence again. Following Ahmed Pasha and Hadım Ali Pasha, the kazaskers, Sokullu Mehmet Pasha, Haydar Pasha, Ayas Pasha, and İskender Pasha entered the pavilion with their eyes on the ground. They kissed the edge of the throne one by one and stood with folded hands.
The Sultan had again tilted his double-plumed Yusufiye with its white muslin turban very far forward. His eyebrows were not visible at all; his face was sterner than usual. A question broke the dim silence of the pavilion, which resembled a dull emerald dome erected on thin jeweled pillars:
— Where is the Red Apple? Does anyone among you know?
— !.. — ?.. — …
No one could answer. Everyone was looking ahead.
The Sultan said: — I called you to ask this. Around my pavilion we always hear this cry. Look! They are shouting again “To the Red Apple, to the Red Apple…” Where is this place? I want to learn where this land is, whose name I have heard thousands of times.
Ahmed Pasha, the conqueror of Temeşvar, stammered: — It must be Vienna, my Sultan…
The Sultan turned to the other viziers: — Is that so?
— …
They could neither say “yes” nor “no,” they were looking ahead. The Sultan asked the Rumelian lords who had won his favor two days ago with the unparalleled perfect regiment they had brought to the army, “with tiger skins, wolf-crowned, core-spurred, basin-shielded, immersed in iron from head to toe, with chestnut-handled weapons, red and white flags”:
— Sokullu! You tell me; where is the Red Apple?
— It must be Rome, my Sultan!
— How do you know?
— That’s what I think.
— Thinking is not knowing…
The Sultan also asked the learned kazaskers in turn. About the Red Apple, some said “China,” some said “Machin.” Ayas Pasha said: — It is India.
Haydar Pasha said: — It is Sink!
İskender Pasha said: — It must be beyond Mount Qaf. When the Great Sultan saw that no one knew what he wanted to understand, he became even more irritated. He nervously gripped the armrests of the throne. With a sudden anger unusual for him, he turned to the kazaskers. He smiled bitterly:
— What a pity for your knowledge!
— …
These heads wearing “Khorasani” caps, who thought “We know everything!”, swayed slightly under the insult they received. They would accept anything. But ignorance? Never…
From among them, a black-bearded, stocky, fat scholar stepped forward one pace. He was both the most learned and the most courageous among them:
— My Sultan, he said; this “Red Apple” is a legend invented by the common people. It has neither beginning nor end… It is not a reality that we should know. As for the people, my Sultan; they don’t know, yet they speak.
The sovereign Suleiman of the time raised his hands leaning on the golden armrest: — What the people say! Is what God says!
— …
The short judge did not understand anything from these words.
The Sultan continued: — This is a truth! Since the people are saying it; the voice that comes from the people is the voice of God! It is not called a legend. It must certainly have a basis! But you don’t know…
— There is no such name in either religious law or in science that has a referent…
— You say there is no such name in either religious law or in science.
— Yes, my Sultan.
— But is there none in custom?
The scholar thought. He looked ahead. He was going to say “No.” But there it was, in the clamor of a great army beginning to celebrate the campaign, the cries of “To the Red Apple” were roaring like lightning strikes one after another. Didn’t the soldiers shout this cry not only when going on campaign or entering battle, but even when they got rowdy or rebelled? This was the goal of a force that was always overflowing, rising, surging, not knowing what it was. When he was still a tiny apprentice in the medrese, he used to hear the sipahi and janissary units chanting this cry. He remembered this well. But he had never been curious enough to learn what its origin was, nor had he come across anything about this name in the texts he had read. He swallowed. He clenched his folded hands in front of him. Now he could not say “The Red Apple does not exist in custom.” Because… There it was… He was hearing it!
— It exists, my Sultan, he said.
— Then its “referent” also exists.
— …
The scholar fell silent. He blushed. He stepped back one pace. He looked ahead again. Didn’t religious law also confirm the truth of custom? The Sultan was among the virtuous who knew this. There was no room for sophistry before him. The other kazaskers were glad they had not opened their mouths, seeing their colleague’s defeat. They were remembering the wisdom that “Silence is better than speech.”
The Sultan smiled bitterly again: — How strange the world is, he said; you are the leaders of this very people. You govern these people. Yet you do not know what they want.
— ! — … — … — …
But the wise Sultan; as heroic, wise, virtuous, and poetic as he was, was also fair! He would first examine everything within himself; he would pass every judgment, every decision through his own conscience before making it. While the servants in his presence were writhing for not being able to find an answer to his question, he too became troubled. In his inner language, he asked himself:
— O Suleiman! Do you yourself know what this thing is that you ask them?
— I don’t know but…
— But?
— … I sense it.
He felt a little relieved. He began to think about what he sensed. This was a truth beyond nature, science, and wisdom. Yes, there it was, the “Red Apple.”… He seemed to know what it was but was not saying it. Yet the viziers, kazaskers, beylerbeyi… No, they sensed nothing at all. One person’s words did not match another’s. Some said China, some India, some Sint, some Vienna, some Rome. The Red Apple was none of these! Inside, he said:
— Perhaps a place more valuable than all of them.
Then he asked his servants, red with shame: — From whom can we learn where the Red Apple is?
— …
Everyone was looking ahead, no one was opening their mouth so as not to say something wrong. Only İskender Pasha said:
— My Sultan, he said; the knowledge of the kazasker servants is from books! As for the vizier servants and us slaves… We are not such profound scholars! How ignorant we are has been revealed by your imperial question. They say “What a thousand scholars don’t know, one mystic knows.” Command. Let us find a mystic. Ask him.
— Who is a mystic?
— One who senses without knowing, my Sultan…
Then İskender Pasha, with the logic of a simple soldier, said that the people saying “Red Apple, Red Apple” must certainly desire something, that even in the singing of birds there is a meaning in their own language. The short, stubborn kazasker insisted again that one could never know what the people said or wanted. The Sultan ordered İskender Pasha to go out and secretly enter among the army, to randomly seize three people from those shouting in the parade and bring them to his presence. When İskender Pasha left, the Sultan began to ask the kazaskers various questions in Arabic “concerning custom.” The viziers and beylerbeyi were listening without understanding.
İskender Pasha soon entered the pavilion: — I have seized three men, my Sultan.
— First bring one of them, let’s see.
İskender Pasha pushed in the man who had turned pale yellow with fear from the pavilion’s majesty, whose headdress had fallen from his head, trembling all over. This was a tall, mustachioed, strong vagrant. He was one of the vagabonds who worked as cobblers in the army. He went toward the throne as the gatekeepers outside the pavilion door had taught him. He kissed the ground. He did not stand up. With his arms folded on his chest, he remained on his knees. The Sultan asked:
— You say “Red Apple, Red Apple!” where is this?
— …
The vagrant, for acquittal from the crime he thought he had committed, said: — Everyone shouts, my Sultan. I shouted too.
— I don’t ask why you shouted. Where is the Red Apple? Tell me that.
The vagrant did not hesitate: — The place our Sultan will take us!
— Where is that place?
— Our Sultan knows.
The Sultan turned to İskender Pasha: — Bring the second one, let’s see!
The vagrant kneeling rose at the viziers’ signal. He went backward. He stood by the curtain. This time, the one brought to the presence was a stocky, dark, white-felt-capped, spirited janissary soldier. He walked freely. He kissed the edge. He stood up, folded his hands. To the Sultan’s question “Where is the Red Apple?” he answered without thinking:
— The place you will lead us to, falling before us, my Sultan!
— Where is that place?
— You know, my Sultan!
— …
İskender Pasha also brought the third one into the presence. This was a young gardener whose wide shoulders bore the ends of his guard’s cap.
— Where is the Red Apple?
— Where your horse goes, my Sultan!
— Where is that place?
— Only my Sultan knows where that is…
Yes… That place was neither India nor Sint nor China nor Machin nor Vienna nor Rome! The Sultan said to those in his presence:
— You saw, didn’t you; there is no difference in the answers of all three. The truth is one: “Red Apple” is the place I want to go, there it is… The place where God will send me!
He immediately bestowed three hundred purses of silver coins on each of these three men who spoke the truth. Now the cries of “To the Red Apple, to the Red Apple!” were increasing, overflowing, drawing even closer. The Sultan suddenly thought about the place where God would send him. At this gate of paradise called the “Red Apple” where the endless path of God, the path of truth went, weren’t Vienna, Rome, India, Sint, China, Machin nothing but a bunch of mortal ruins?
He shook his head. He leaned back. He narrowed his large black eyes. He seemed to have arrived at a divine, spiritual pleasure! He did not even notice his prudent viziers, learned kazaskers, heroic beylerbeyis kissing the edge again and leaving… At the door of the pavilion, they too froze before a magnificent spectacle whose sublimity and majesty they had never been aware of until now; hundreds of thousands of soldiers celebrating the campaign had linked arms; playing cirit, mingling, they were drawing a wide circle around the pavilion:
— To the Red Apple… — To the Red Apple, with their cries, as if toward a throne so high that imagination could not reach it, very high, they were preparing to fly with wings made of shields!
Footnotes
- Kızılelma’ya kadar, dek – All the way to the Red Apple, up to.
- Kubbesine – To its dome.
- Yusufiye – Sultan Suleiman’s turban/cap.
- Üvez – A fruit resembling medlar.
- Murassa – Embroidered, ornate; decorated with precious stones.
- Kostaniçeli – A type of spear.
- Fakih – A person with understanding and intelligence.
- Şer – In Islamic sciences.
- Örf – Custom: A tradition spontaneously created by the people, not determined by laws.
- Müsemma – That which has a name, that which has been named.
- Fazıl – Virtuous, learned.
- Derûnî – Inner, internal.
- Sual-i Hümâyun – The Sultan’s question.
- Mehâbet – Majesty, awe.
- Perîşânî – Headdress, cap.
- Barata – Guard’s cap/helmet.
- Bostancı – Palace guard.
- Müdebbir – Prudent, wise in management.
- Ulviyet – Sublimity, grandeur.
