The Architect's Apprentice (34 page)

One night in the menagerie they awoke to an awful din. A jumble of neighing, barking, grunting, bellowing and groaning rent the air. Throwing his blanket aside, Jahan sprang to his feet. The other tamers were also stirring. Taras the Siberian, at ease in every calamity, was the first to walk out while the rest fumbled for their garments and boots. Groping like a blind man in the dark, Jahan stepped into the garden, where a wedge of moonlight glimmered shyly. There was a torrent of light pouring from above – a cascade in every shade of red. It took him a heartbeat to recognize what it was.

‘Fire!’ someone shouted.

Jahan was witnessing yet another blaze in the heart of the palace. The gardens, pavilions and passages, always so quiet you could hear the swish of your hair as you strode along, now pulsed with cries of help. The silence code dating back to the days of Sultan Suleiman had gone up in smoke.

The calamity had broken out on the other side of the inner walls, along the eastern edge of the second courtyard. Jahan knew what was located there: the royal kitchens. The pantry, larder, butlery and cookhouse were smouldering. Just recently the master and the apprentices had repaired those buildings. Now they were burning. The flames had jumped westward, slowly but steadily engulfing the aviary. Jahan wondered if anyone had set the birds free. The thought of hundreds of pairs of wings flapping in horror, unable to take flight, pierced him to the quick.

The first courtyard where they currently were was still untouched by the fire. Even so, the wind was strong, fickle. It blew in their direction every so often, bringing thick, grey ashes like dead butterflies. The smoke pricked their eyes, filled their lungs. The monkeys, seized by a fright larger than their reason – teeth bared, eyes glazed – were
banging on the iron bars. The tamers had to move the menagerie to a place of safety.

That, however, was no small feat. Under duress animals were capable of the strangest behaviour. The royal gardens, though not their native domain, was nevertheless home. Nobody could say how they would react when forced out of their cages into wooden crates. Having only a few carts at their disposal, the tamers could only proceed piecemeal, relocating a few animals at a time. Unprepared and baffled, they debated among themselves what to do. The Circassian grooms wanted to wait until they had received orders from the Chief White Eunuch. Another wave of fumes and cinders blowing in their direction was enough to silence them. There was no time to lose.

First they moved the apes. Not because they were more valuable but because no one could stand their ruckus. Next Jahan led Chota out of the barn. Wise soul that he was, Chota did not cause any problem. If anything, he was helpful, complacent. He didn’t mind pulling the carriage on which they placed the monkeys and gorillas, many of them shrieking and jumping up and down, tottering like unruly drunkards.

The creatures that could trot out were allowed to do so – horses, camels, zebras, giraffes, gazelles and reindeer. Fearing that a sudden noise could startle them into a stampede, the tamers were careful, alert. They tied the animals to one another by the neck, making a caravan of unlikely companions. Some mounted on horses, others on carts, the trainers followed their animals. Despite their care, no sooner were they beyond the palace walls than the zebras, as though jinxed, bolted down the hills, dragging the rest of the caravan with them. The tamers shot after them like demons. Drenched in sweat and dust and curses, they managed to rein in the zebras before they caused the entire herd to tumble over, one on top of another.

With the help of sticks and nets, treats and threats, they loaded the royal animals on to carts. Off went the snakes, chameleons, ostriches, turtles, raccoons, weasels, peacocks and the terrified llamas. Next came the foxes, hyenas, panthers and leopards. They transported them
outside the palace gates and down the slopes towards an opening by the quay, unsure how far the flames were capable of reaching.

The elephant and the mahout made several round-trips, bringing fodder and water for the animals. When they were done, Jahan placed a basket of leaves in front of Chota, leaving him in the care of the Chinese twins, and returned to the menagerie for a last inspection. This was partly because of an old habit. True, since Captain Gareth had disappeared he had stopped stealing, but, like every thief, he knew that a fire was an unmissable opportunity to chance on unexpected riches. But this was not the only reason for his return. He was thinking about Mihrimah. For a while after the demise of her brother Selim she had not visited the palace. But tonight she, too, was in the harem. Was she frightened, Jahan wondered. He thought about her nursemaid, who must be having a terrible time breathing with her asthma. In a couple of hours, for all he knew, the flames could reach their chamber. He wanted to be sure they were fine and safe.

The guards at the gate were too distracted to pay him any attention. By now the blaze had drawn closer, lapping over the walls towards the rose gardens, embers leaping in a sprinkle of gold. When he reached the enclosure of the wild cats, Jahan was surprised to see the lions were still locked up – two females and one male. The mighty beasts, restless and tense, paced up and down, growling at something in the distance as though faced with an enemy only they could detect.

Outside the cage stood Olev. Perky as usual he yelled, ‘Hey, Indian. Why did you come back?’

‘Just wanted to see if everything was all right. You need a hand?’

‘My girls are scared; my boy doesn’t want to come out. I’ll have to drag them. Don’t want the poor things burned to a crisp.’

Smiling at his own joke and without a weapon to protect him, Olev opened the iron door and entered the cage. Jahan watched him approach one of the females, talking in a calm, steady tone. The cat stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the tamer’s every gesture. Gingerly, Olev placed a hoop around her neck and carefully led her out. He ushered her up a plank and into a wooden crate placed on a cart.
Next he moved the second lioness in the same way. As she walked out, the male stared from a corner, his eyes two slivers of dark citrine.

The back of Jahan’s neck felt hot. Apprehension began to creep over him. Dawn was breaking in the distance. There was something on Olev’s face that hadn’t been there before. The slightest quiver in his nostrils, a twitch of his mouth. It was the two of them in the cage – the tamer and the lion. In his hand Olev held a rope, limp and listless, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. For the first time Jahan saw him hesitate. The lion snarled, no more than an inaudible growl, as if he, too, were caught between opposing urges. Heart racing, Jahan grabbed a club and put one foot into the cage.

‘Step back,’ Olev said. ‘Go away!’

Drawing a breath, Jahan did as he was told.

‘Close the door!’

This, too, Jahan did. He felt numb, unable to think properly. Olev’s flame-coloured pony-tail came loose, spreading out on his collar. He wiped the sweat off his brow, momentarily distracted. In that instant the lion turned to him with another snarl, as though he had just noticed him, as though this wasn’t the man who had taken care of him for years, feeding him every day before he fed himself. The beast lifted his paw, his claws stretched open; he sprang on the man.

Olev fell down. There was not a trace of pain on his face, only astonishment. The look of a father disappointed in his son. Outside the cage Jahan dashed about like a madman, waving his arms, shouting. The club still in one hand, he hit the bars of the cage in the hope of distracting the lion. It worked. Pulling back, the animal took a few steps towards Jahan.

In the meantime, Olev stood up, unsteady. Instead of walking towards the door, he edged nearer to the cat, calling him. It happened so fast. Like a dream Jahan watched it occur, in front of his eyes. The lion, now taking his gaze off Jahan, turned back and pounced at his tamer, fastening his jaws on Olev’s neck.

Jahan screamed, his voice that of a stranger. He smashed the club, kicked the bars, shouted at the cat. Finding a cudgel nearby, he ran back, too terrified to remember to pray. He went into the cage. There was a pool of blood where Olev lay. The lion, having lost interest in him, had returned to his corner. Slowly, not moving his gaze from the cat, though unsure what he would do should he spring, Jahan hauled the wounded man outside. Olev’s eyes were open, flicking about, his throat spurting blood. His neck had been torn open, his jugular vein ripped. As soon as he dragged him out, Jahan closed the door. He didn’t care if the flames reached the lion. He wanted him to burn.

They buried Olev in a graveyard not that far from the seraglio. The male lion, despite Jahan’s wish, had survived. As it turned out, the flames never reached the menagerie and all their efforts had been for naught.

The royal kitchens were reduced to ashes together with parts of the harem and the Privy Chamber. Sinan and the apprentices would have to rebuild them all over again.

After Olev’s funeral – attended only by the animal-tamers and equerries – something came over Jahan. He was seized by a presentiment, as if, in one death, he had seen the deaths of them all. He raged deep inside, not at the lion that had killed a friend but at everyone else; at himself, for leaving Olev on his own in that cage and acting too late; at the new Sultan, for not giving a tinker’s curse about his servants perishing while serving him; at Master Sinan, who, unaffected by disasters, kept making building after building; at God, for allowing them to err and suffer so yet still expecting them to pray in gratitude. Yes, the world was beautiful – a beauty that irritated him. What difference did it make whether they were hurt or happy, right or wrong, when the sun rose and the moon waned just the same, with or without them? The one creature he did not take
umbrage at was Chota, and he spent as much time as possible beside him, soothed by his calmness.

The anger was not all. Something else accompanied it – an ambition he had never known before. There was a part of him that wished to defy not only the master who had made him his apprentice, the Sultan who had made him his mahout, and the God who had made him weak, but most of all Mihrimah, who, during all these years, had made him a silent sufferer. He worked hard, spoke little. This, more or less, was his mood when Sinan and the three other apprentices arrived at the palace to, once again, repair the damage.

‘We’ll add new baths and pavilions by the shore,’ Sinan said. ‘The harem and the Privy Chamber need to be repaired. We shall enlarge them again. Everything we build ought to match the spirit of the building.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I want you to draw a plan. Whoever brings me the best, shall be my Chief Assistant.’

Jahan was surprised to hear this. Until this day they had been treated as equals, even when they knew they were not. Now their master was making them compete against one another. He knew he should have been thrilled. Except his heart was not in it. Still, he worked – though not beside the other apprentices in the shade of the gardens. He went to the barn, sat next to Chota and finished his sketches there.

A few days later Sinan wanted to talk to him – urgently. Jahan saw that he had placed the designs side by side, all four of them.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘I want you to look at these and tell me what you see.’

Not knowing which scroll belonged to whom, Jahan inspected the three drawings. He compared each with his own. It seemed as if he alone had proposed knocking down the baths and building them anew at the back of the harem. Even though Mihrimah no longer lived there, he had made his design with her comfort in mind. As he studied the sketches, he began to recognize the purposeful strokes of Davud, the meticulous tracing of Nikola and the light flowing hand of Yusuf.

‘What do you think?’ Sinan asked.

Uneasily, Jahan pointed out the best in each drawing. Sinan said, ‘I know what their strengths are. Tell me their weaknesses.’

‘This one was hastily done,’ Jahan said. The other, he explained, in his desire to copy his master, had not contributed from his soul.

‘How about this?’ Sinan asked, showing Jahan his own scroll. ‘I like that it cares about the harem population and makes it easier for them.’

Jahan felt his face burn.

‘But it takes no notice of the surroundings. There’s no harmony between the new additions and the old structure.’

Sinan’s eyes glimmered. He took out the last design. ‘And this?’

‘Careful, balanced. He’s respected the building and expanded it in proportion.’

‘That’s right. What I’d like to know is why your design, which is the better one, pays no attention to the palace.’

Jahan’s face clouded over. ‘I cannot say, master.’

‘Yours was the best but it had one flaw. We do not raise buildings that float in empty space. We reflect the harmony of nature and the spirit of the place.’

Thus the mute apprentice became the Chief Assistant. Blushing up to his ears, a shy smile hovering on his lips, Yusuf kept his gaze on the ground, as if he wanted to disappear therein. As for Jahan he had learned something about himself: that he had reached a point in his craft where he could either improve or destroy his talent. Davud, Yusuf, Nikola – these were not his rivals. His most fearsome rival was none other than himself.

They spent the summer expanding the palace and repairing the areas where the fire had wreaked havoc. Accustomed as they were to toiling on all sorts of sites, this one felt different and oddly quiet. For once there was no idle talk among the labourers, no jokes or quips as they carried the planks, hoisted the pulleys or ate their soup. When they erected an uncut marble column, dozens of men pulling at once, the hawsers slashing their palms, there were no shouts of
Allah, Allah
. Just as there were no words of praise from the foremen when one of them did a fine job, intent less on commending than on prodding everyone else to toil harder. Even the sounds of the mallets, saws and axes were less ear-splitting than usual. An awkward silence descended
on everything, leaving them dazed, as if they had just woken up from a slumber. Such was the impact of being close to Sultan Murad.

During those weeks Jahan met servants he had never come across before and learned about halls he had not known existed. The palace was a maze of rooms within rooms and paths that drew circles, a serpent swallowing its tail. It was lonely enough to make you love your own shadow and crowded enough to leave you gasping for air. There were far more people under its roof than at the time of Sultan Suleiman – more women in the harem, more guards at the gates, more pages serving more dishes. Like a fish that couldn’t sense when it was full, the palace kept absorbing more and more.

Once the apprentices finished rebuilding the kitchens, they started the additions to the outer part of the harem. The concubines, having retreated into the inner chambers, were out of sight. Jahan hoped to see, if not Mihrimah, then something that belonged to her – a handkerchief with her initials, a velvet slipper, an ivory comb. None of these he found. A few days later Mihrimah sent him word. She and
dada
were going back to her mansion.
At midday we shall be passing by the First Gate
.

Seated on one of the higher branches of an apple tree, Jahan waited, elated and terrified. In the drowsy heat the sun glowed through the ripe fruits, which nobody dared pick because they belonged to the Sultan – who had no time for such trifles. Jahan flinched at a distant rattle. A carriage appeared, moving slowly. It seemed to Jahan that he and only he had reached a standstill while the world had moved on. Everything was familiar in a strange way. Next to the vastness of the universe his heartbeat was inaudible. He was an observer. No more. The leaves rustled, the slugs inched forward, a moth’s wings beat in the breeze. Jahan savoured every detail, sensing he would never have this moment again. Time became a river. He stood by the grassy bank and stared at the water flowing by, alone and forsaken. The carriage came to a stop. A hand, as graceful as a bird, fluttered out of the window and pulled the curtain aside. Mihrimah looked up to where
Jahan was perched, her face softening as she took in his adoring gaze. She saw one more time that, despite the decades and the distances and the wrinkles and the greying hair, nothing between them had changed. Jahan took a long look at her, without averting his eyes or bowing his head; he stared straight into her eyes. Her lips curled into a tender smile and she blushed a little. She pulled out a handkerchief from her bosom, smelled its perfume, glanced up at him and then dropped it for him to come and fetch afterwards.