The Architect's Apprentice (28 page)

‘The heart is the centre of our very being. It was our Sultan’s last wish. Should he die here, he wanted his heart to be buried on the battleground.’

Choosing the best kaftan they could find in the trunks, they dressed the corpse. Finally, they combed his beard, lined his eyes with soot and coloured his cheeks with a rosy powder. When they were done, Sultan Suleiman looked healthier than he had while he was alive.

‘Take off that robe,’ Sokollu remarked as soon as he saw what they had done. ‘Too glamorous. He wouldn’t wear that.’

They settled on a plain robe and readied the corpse. At dusk, three elite guards, having finished inspecting the camp, arrived to report that all was quiet. With their help the elephant was brought to the entrance. Chota was anxious, sensing something was wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sokollu asked, irritated.

‘My Lord, give me time with the beast, I beg.’

Jahan spoke sweetly to Chota, telling him that he would be carrying a dead man. Just for a few days, he assured him. After much cajoling and many apples, the animal calmed down, allowing them to place the Sultan into the howdah. Jahan took his usual place on the
elephant’s neck and rode on, his eyes fixed on the circling vultures in the distance. When he saw a few of them descend upon the bodies strewn about far down below, he had to turn away. Twenty thousand men were lost during the siege of Szigetvar.

On the way back, they learned that Prince Selim had made it to the city. The messenger had succeeded. Sokollu was immensely relieved. There being no more need to pretend, he ordered his guards to reveal the truth. The Sultan’s body was brought down from the howdah and placed in a litter, which was then pulled by two white stallions. In this way they reached the capital. The people of Istanbul were waiting for them. Thousands had gathered on both sides of the road, tearing their hair and their garments, beating their chests. Jahan saw fearless warriors break into tears, men sob like boys.

On the heels of the father’s burial came the son’s enthronement. Selim wanted the people to celebrate as they had never done before. Earthquakes, diseases, death … calamities had fallen so thick and fast that there had not been any joy left, much less hope. They had had enough of mourning. Now it was time to rejoice.

The
ulema
were appalled. Even Sokollu was frightened of their reaction. It was his adviser Feridun Beg who convinced him that it was fine to let the multitude have a bit of fun. He said, ‘Can a body be constipated all the time? The world needs to empty its bowels. Let them make merry, my Vizier.’

On the day Selim ascended the throne, Chota was arrayed in a magnificent headdress and a silver mantle decorated with gems. The elephant led the royal procession through the streets of Istanbul. People waved, cheered, sang loudly. And, once again, Jahan could not believe how suddenly the public mood changed from sorrow to rejoicing, how quickly their river of tears ran dry. If they moved between gloom and glee with such ease, did this mean they could pass from love to hatred just as effortlessly?

Once the new Sultan had been enthroned, Chota and Jahan went back to work on the construction sites. In the mornings they would leave the menagerie, always through the same path; in the evenings they would return, tired and thirsty, smelling of dust and mud. At or about this time Master Sinan started to build a bridge over the bar that connected the Buyukcekmece Lake to the sea – long, arched and graceful.

On a night in December, having finished the bulk of the construction, they were returning to the city – the master and the three apprentices in a carriage, Jahan ahead of them, riding Chota. As soon as they turned round a bend they heard a noise, far off from the city, and somewhere in the midst of it a scream, sharp and bloodcurdling. When Jahan lifted his head skywards he saw a cascade of orange, yellow and red – the colours so bright they hurt his eyes. He shouted, ‘Fire!’

The carriage came to a stop and they got out. Sinan looked devastated. He said, ‘We ought to go to help.’

‘Why don’t we go with Chota?’ Jahan said. ‘It’ll be faster.’ They all climbed up into the howdah while Jahan planted himself on the elephant’s neck.

They trudged along the streets, following the shouts that pierced the air like splintered glass. As they went, the wind blew stronger, hotter, scattering the firestorm from one wooden house to the next. Jahan blinked repeatedly, dazzled as much by the glow as by the commotion. The flames licked the night sky in swirls of colour so vivid that it felt almost solid. Every now and then a blaze went up, trees glaring like Murano chandeliers.

Each corner they turned displayed a sight more harrowing than the previous one. Animals trotted around, lost, dazed. Families tried to save what little they had, men lugging baskets and barrels, women
pale with fright, babies crying their hearts out. Children, only they, remained dauntless, scampering about as if in the midst of a game the grown-ups had invented for them to play.

In front of their eyes entire neighbourhoods went up in smoke. Rooms in which mothers had given birth, where circumcisions were celebrated, life was conceived and the sickly drew their last breaths – these places with the memories they held turned to cinders. Nothing remained except a lingering warmth and, strewn about on the ground, clothes, shoes, trifles, a piece of a brick that was once a wall. They came to a halt at a thoroughfare where the fire had hit the worst. Sinan, taken aback, asked to be brought down. As the Chief Royal Architect he had worked hard to prevent this calamity, having the streets paved, checking the buildings. All for naught.

There were Janissaries idling, humping cases, talking to people, but with leaden steps, almost reluctant. Sinan marched up to one of them – a man sitting on a piece of timber, gazing around dully.

‘Why aren’t you doing something?’

The Janissary, not expecting to be questioned and not recognizing the architect, snapped out of his reverie. ‘What?’

‘Why are you not helping the people?’

‘I am,’ said the man morosely.

Another Janissary edged nearer. He said they had not been quenching the flames because they were waiting to hear from their agha, who was sick in bed.

At this Sinan’s face darkened. ‘What orders do you need to hear? How can you hold off when the city is in flames?’

While Sinan was talking with the Janissaries, the mahout and the elephant, distracted by a sound, veered into a side street. Further down the road Jahan saw two women screaming at each other, beside themselves. From neighbours he learned they were the wives of a merchant who was away travelling. When the fire broke out, the women had run out of the house, grabbing their children, each assuming that the other had snatched the newborn baby.

Jahan looked at the burning building and at the crying women.

‘You wait for me here. I’m going in,’ he said to Chota. He wouldn’t dream of taking the elephant with him, knowing how scared he was of the flames.

Slowly, Jahan made his way towards the smouldering house. He took every step with the utmost care, listening out for the slightest sound. Once he crossed the threshold, the flames assaulted him from all sides. The upper storey above the front rooms had collapsed, but the building was still intact at the back. Jahan saw a brass candleholder and snatched it out of habit, even though it was of little worth. A few steps ahead he got luckier: an empty inkpot of gold and emerald. Coughing and rasping, Jahan fumbled through curtains of smoke, his eyes watering so much he could barely see where he was going. He dodged a burning timber that fell right down in front of him. The wood hit his shoulder, knocking him down. There was no way he could go any further.

Suddenly, a soft coil of flesh grabbed him by the waist and lifted him up.

‘Chota! How did you get here?’ Jahan exclaimed.

In lieu of a response the elephant led him towards the depths of the house – or what was left of it. Chota moved his ears as though catching an imperceptible sound. The animal’s sensitive feet must have been burning, but the mahout would not think of that until later.

Jahan could not open his mouth for fear of swallowing more smoke. Every breath hurt. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped it around his face. Chota shoved him from behind, gently but firmly. Hedged in by flames, Jahan lurched forward into the second room, then steadied himself. The elephant waited behind him.

There it was – the cradle. Its gauzy tulle covering must have helped the baby to breathe. Jahan grabbed the bundle, without checking whether the child was alive. With one hand the baby, clinging to life, clutched at Jahan. It had cried so much its voice was gone; its rosebud mouth was closed. Yet its strength was surprising, and it must have been contagious, too, for both Chota and Jahan were calmer now.

By the time Chota and Jahan emerged, the number of people watching on the street had tripled. Sinan and the apprentices, too, were there, having heard the story of the beast that had plodded into a burning house. The mother of the baby dashed towards them and plucked the baby away from Jahan. Then she began praying, laughing, thanking, crying, trying to kiss Jahan’s hand, Chota’s skin, all at once, with no fear of being trampled by the elephant.

Jahan tottered towards Sinan, who was greeting him with open arms. ‘I am furious at you …’ he said, ‘but proud, son, so proud.’

The apprentices embraced him. Even so, Jahan could feel a coldness exuding from them. He had outshone them, and this they hadn’t liked.

It turned out the Chief Janissary Agha had really been ill. Yet that was not the reason why he had delayed sending instructions to the soldiers. The army, demanding an increase in their pay, had seen the fire as an opportunity to prove how essential they were. As the Grand Vizier had been slow in granting the rise, the agha had been slow in giving the command to his Janissaries to put out the flames.

The mahout and the elephant headed to the master’s home, smothered in soot and reeking of cinders. Jahan wrapped Chota’s feet. Two of his nails were broken, bleeding. He had patches of burned skin all over. The scars from that night would remain and never heal.

Later on, from Sinan’s garden, Jahan stood gazing at the city below, wraiths of smoke whirling here and there. At dawn there were no birds chirping, no hearths crackling, no seagulls swooping; everything had plunged into silence. It had become nippy; the cold felt strange following the heat of the night.

After the fire died out, the extent of the devastation was clear. With the exception of the Jewish quarter, which was built of stone, street after street had been razed.

‘The fire was our teacher,’ Sinan said when they all gathered again. ‘He taught us a lesson.’

That same week Sinan went to the palace and obtained the permissions that he needed. Sleeping little, he drew plans. Streets would be enlarged by half a cubit on each side. There would be no house taller than two storeys. More brick and stone, instead of wood, would be used, he decided.

No sooner were the new rules introduced, however, than people began to defy them. The fire had been a teacher, true. But Istanbul, where forgetting was easier than remembering, never learned its lesson.