The Janissary Tree (12 page)

"Some
boys. You haven't answered my question."

His
eyes swiveled back to her.

"Oh,
I think so," he said softly. "You've got something I can use, right,
kdfek}
A drunken sailor for Yorg."

She
glanced back over her shoulder. Her Greek sailor sat with a frown on his face,
tilting his glass back and forth. Mina and the other boy had their heads
together, until he said something that made Mina give a whoop of laughter and
rock back, one hand fluttering at her chest.

"Really!"

She
looked back at Yorg. His eyes were cold as stone. His fingers curled around a
glass: they were almost flat, with huge, misshapen knuckles.

"You'd
be doing him a favor,
kdfek
," he spat.

He
watched her, sensing a little victory.

"That
guy deserves a real woman, don't you think?"
Kdfek
dancers! Ancient
traditions, years of training, blah blah. What gave those sad bastards the
right to look down on him? "Yes, a woman. And maybe, why not, a young one."

Preen
stiffened. "You're mean, Yorg. I think you'll regret this one day. You take the
sailor."

She
went back to her table. Mina looked up, but the smile on her lips vanished when
she saw the crook-backed pimp in tow. The sailor looked from Preen to Yorg in
surprise.

"I've
got to go," Preen bent forward to whisper in his ear. A little louder, she
said, "This is Yorg. He looks like the devil's toenail, but tonight--he wants to
buy you a drink. Isn't that right, Yorg?"

Yorg
gave her a sick look and then turned and put out his hand. "Hello, Dmitri," he
croaked.

28

**************

British
Embassy

Pera

Dear
Sis,

...
awfully jolly. Ask a great deal after you.

I
am trying to write all my Impressions, just as you wanted me to, but there are
so many I hardly know where to begin. Imagine you were trying to write a letter
describing everything you ever saw in Grandmama's china cabinets, you know the
thing--Cups all piled up helter skelter, &. little saucers, &
Shepherdesses & Coffeepots & colored sugar Pots, with domed lids:
that's what the whole place seems like to me. Not to mention a blue riband of
Water, on which the whole thing seems to rest--not the cabinet, I
mean---Constantinople.

Fizerly
says the Turks don't give a thought for Yesterday or tomorrow--all Fatalists--he
once went into the great church built by Justinian--Aya Sofia (in Greek,
pis)--all disguised as a Mohammedan (Fizerly, I mean, not Justinian--whizz!) and
says it's just awful, with nothing but some dinner gongs hanging in the corners
to show what Ali Ottoman has done there in the last 400 years. He's a splendid
fellow, Fizerly, and you should get to meet his Sister for he says, and I
believe him, we shall be fast Friends.

On
the same line, though, I have passed my first Great Test in Diplomacy. Fizerly'd
hardly finished telling me the Turks live for the moment when one of them
shambled up to the Embassy door--they all wear cloaks, you see, and look like
Wizards--Turks not doors, I mean--and declared himself to be a historian! Fizerly
spoke some Turkish to him and the chap replied in perfect French. Fizerly and I
exchanged glances--I thought I would die of laughter--but the Turk v serious and
wanted to investigate Janissary regiments See. The Amb says Istanbul is much
duller without the Janissaries, Fizerly tells me. Not too dull for

Yr
loving bro.,

Frank

"Who
are you working for?"

Frank
Compston spoke French badly. Yashim wished he would go away and leave him to
get on with the assessment. The Englishman seemed puzzled.

Yashim
said, "Let us say I work for myself."

"Oh.
A freelance?"

Yashim
rolled the unfamiliar word around his tongue. A free lance? He supposed he had:
at least it was unencumbered by the plums that other men had gobbling at their
groins.

"You
are very perceptive," he said, inclining his head.

The
young man flushed. He felt certain that he was being laughed at but could not
quite understand the exchange. Perhaps he'd better just shut up for a while.
More diplomatic. He folded his arms and sat stiffly on the upholstered seat,
watching the Turk scribbling down lists.

After
a minute he said, "Jolly bad business about the Janissaries, was it?"

Yashim
looked up in surprise.

"For
the Janissaries, yes," he observed drily.

The
boy nodded vigorously, as if Yashim had just made a profound remark.

"Whew!
Yes! Rotten for them."

He
shook his head and raised his eyebrows.

"Not
much fun, being burned alive," Yashim murmured.
Pas trop amusant
.

The
boy goggled dutifully. "Not my idea of amusement, certainly!" He lowered his
head and gave a big laugh. Yashim carried on writing.

"I
say," the boy chirped up. "What do chaps do for amusement here, in Istanbul?"

He
was leaning forward now, his hands dangling between his knees, with a
screwed-up look on his face.

Yashim
narrowed his eyes. When he spoke it was almost a whisper. "Well, some men use a
dead sheep."

The
boy startled. "A sheep?"

"They
cut it and remove its--what do you say--its bladder."

The
boy's face was frozen into an expression of horror.

"One
of them, it's usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra--"

"Oh
quite. I--I see. Please, it's not what I meant."

Yashim
put on a puzzled expression.

"But
don't you play football in your country, too?"

The
boy stared at him, then sagged.

"I'm
sorry, yes, of course. I--I--" He was quite red in the face. "I think I'll just
go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me."

Yashim
gave a short smile and went back to the books.

He
had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates, but if the
figures were even roughly correct, they made for sobering reading.

How
many Janissaries had died in the events of June 1826? A thousand, possibly, at
the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt that followed--say,
five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few,
mostly of known ringleaders.

The
rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found
jobs at the Soup Makers' Guild, as Yashim knew.

Which
still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living
quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living.
Well, that would be a shock to the system.

Yashim
sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful
men.

About
fifty thousand of them, in fact.

29

****************

THE
imam winced. Could he plead another engagement? He knew that the eunuch prayed
in his mosque, but they had never spoken until today. He'd approached him after
the noon prayer and asked for a word. And the imam had inclined his head, quite
graciously, before he realized who was asking.

As
the eunuch fell into stride behind him, the imam reflected that he had no right
to withhold his sympathy, or his advice. Yet he viewed their discussion with
foreboding.

How
could a man be a good Muslim, if so many of those avenues by which a Muslim
approached his God were, so to say, already blocked? The imam considered
himself a teacher, certainly. But so much of his teaching was bound up with
considerations of family: the blessing of children, the regulation that was
appropriate to married life. He advised fathers about their sons, and sons
about their fathers. He taught men--and women-- how to conduct themselves in
marriage. Straying husbands. Jealous wives. They came to him as a judge, with
questions. It was his job to consider the questions and answer yes or no;
usually it was through questions that they reached an understanding of their
position. He guided them to the right questions: along the way they had to
examine their own conduct, in the light of the Prophet's teaching.

What
could he discuss with a creature who had no family?

They
reached his room. A divan, a low table, a pitcher on a brass tray. A few
cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was still sumptuous. Running
from the floor to shoulder height, the walls were decorated with a fabulous
treasury of Iznik tile work, centuries old, from the best period of the Iznik
kilns. The blue geometric designs seemed to have been applied only yesterday:
they shone brilliant and pure, catching the sunlight that streamed through the
windows overhead. In the corner, a black stove threw out a welcome warmth.

The
imam gestured to the divan, while he stood with his back to the stove.

The
eunuch smiled, a little nervously, and settled himself on the divan, kicking
off his sandals before tucking his feet up beneath his burnoose. Inwardly, the
imam groaned. This, he thought, was going to be difficult. He ran a fingertip
across one eyebrow.

"Speak."

His
voice rumbled: Yashim was impressed. He was used to meeting people with
something to hide, their speech marred by doubt and hesitancy, and here was a
man who could give him answers stamped with authority. To be an imam was to
live without uncertainty. For him, there would always be an answer. The truth
was palpable. Yashim envied him his security.

"I
want to know about the Karagozi," he said.

The
imam stopped polishing his eyebrow as it raised itself away from his fingertip.

"I
beg your pardon?"

Yashim
wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He said it again. "The Karagozi."

"They
are a forbidden sect," said the imam.

Not
only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. He began to get up, thanking
the imam for his clarification.

"Stay,
please. You want to know about them?" The imam had put up a hand. A discussion
about doctrine now, that was another case entirely. The imam felt a great
weight roll from his shoulders. They needn't talk about lust or sodomy or
whatever it was that eunuchs wished to talk about when they visited their imam.
Whether it was possible for a man without bollocks to enjoy the houris of
paradise.

Yashim
resumed his seat.

"The
Karagozi were prominent in the Janissary Corps," the imam remarked. "Perhaps
you know this?"

"Yes,
of course. I know that they were unorthodox, too. I want to know how."

"Sheikh
Karagoz was a mystic. This was long ago, before the Conquest, when the Ottomans
were still a nomadic people. They had a few mosques, here and there in the
towns and cities they had conquered from the Christians. But the fighters were
ghazi, holy warriors, and they were not used to living in cities. They hungered
after truth, but it was difficult for teachers and imams to stay among them. Many
of these Turkish ghazi listened to their old babas, their spiritual fathers,
who were wise men. I say wise: they were not all enlightened."

"They
were pagan?"

"Pagan,
animist, yes. Some, however, were touched by the words of the Prophet, peace be
on him. But they incorporated into their doctrines a great deal of the old
traditions, many esoteric teachings, even errors they had gathered up among the
unbelievers. You must remember that those were tumultuous times. The little
Ottoman state was growing, and many Turks were attracted to it. Every day, they
encountered new lands, new peoples, unfamiliar faiths. It was hard for them to
understand the truth."

"And
the Janissaries?"

"Sheikh
Karagoz forged the link. Imagine: the early Janissaries were young men,
uncertain in their faith, for they had been plucked from the ranks of
unbelievers and had to forget many errors. Sheikh Karagoz made it easier for
them. You know the story, of course. He was with the sultan Murad, who first
created the Janissary corps from among the prisoners he took in his Balkan
wars. When the sheikh blessed them, with his hand outstretched in a long white
sleeve, that sleeve became the mark of the Janissary, the headgear that they
wore like an egret in their turbans."

"So
Sheikh Karagoz was a baba?"

"In
a sense, yes. He lived somewhat later than the last babas of Turkish tradition,
but the principles were the same. His teachings were Islamic, but they dwelt on
mystery and sacred union."

"Sacred
union?"

The
imam pursed his lips. "I mean union of faiths, union with God. We say, for
example, that there is only one path to truth, and that is written in the
Koran. Sheikh Karagoz believed that there were other ways."