Freedom or Death

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  The atmosphere was oppressive. The soldiers shouldered their arms and ranged through the streets and over the markets. The pasha appeared in person in the cemetery for the burial of Nuri Bey. Behind him paced the imam and the muezzin, and after them, in a noisy swarm, the armed agas. Even Suleiman the Arab was present escorting the pasha, who had freed him from the irons, having had enough of his bellowing. The servants had brought the body to the tomb. The horse had followed, stepping lightly and neighing. It opened its eyes wide and sniffed the air.

  The imam recited the last words in a high monotonous voice and consigned the dead man to the other world. The muezzin took the bloodstained white headband from the dead man’s head and stuffed it into his own bosom. With deep obeisances all took leave of Nuri Bey, who was lowered into a grave next to his father’s monument. Then the pasha gave a signal that the horse was to be rought to the grave. In his hand he held the paper that Nuri’s Moor had delivered to him. “Agas,” he said, “this is the written and sealed last wish of the dead man. Listen!”

  He lifted the sheet of paper to the light, and read: “When I am dead, I wish you to kill my horse over my grave.”

  The agas were appalled at these words. They gazed at the horse. It had bowed its head over the grave, so that the bluish mane hung down, and it was sniffing at the earth. It stamped on the ground with its hoof and called to its buried master with a doleful neighing.

  “A pity it is, before God and men,” voices could be heard saying on all sides.

  “Pity or .not,” the pasha retorted, “it is the dead man’s wish. It rends my heart too, God knows, but it is the will of the dead man to take the horse with him. I would do the same. Which of you will harden his heart and draw his knife?”

  All stood as though turned to stone. They looked, horror-struck, at the slender body of the horse, gleaming in the sun. This was no Greek to be killed, no ox or sheep to slaughter to preserve one’s own life. This was an ornament of the world, the pride of Megalokastro. Connoisseurs came from Rethymno and Kanea to admire it. Who could raise his knife against such a neck?

  The pasha breathed heavily. “Who is ready to draw his knife?” he asked once more, looking about him.

  No one stirred. The horse had now crouched over the grave and was sniffing frantically. Its neighing sounded like a human voice wailing over someone who has died.

  The pasha turned to his Arab. “Suleiman, you slaughter it!”

  The Arab drew his knife and took a step forward. Then he stumbled and fell on one knee. The horse leaped up and gazed at him. The Arab hesitated.

  “Courage, Suleiman. Shut your eyes and jump at it!” the pasha ordered, tears welling in his eyes.

  All fixed their gaze on the Arab. “If he kills him, I’ll pound him to pulp, by my father’s corpse,” muttered one, his eyes sparkling..

  The Arab approached the horse, his knife raised. He began to curse and swear, to arouse his courage. The horse again lowered its neck and neighed dolefully, and the Arab let his arm drop.

  “Pasha Effendi,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t.”

  “Bravo, Suleiman,” came the cries of approval and relief.

  “I can’t,” the Arab repeated.

  “Take the horse for yourself, Pasha Effendi,” cried the agas; “save it, if you believe in God!”

  “I’m afraid of the dead man,” said the pasha, gazing at the famous stallion with longing. He raised his hand to stroke it, but the beast reared threateningly, and would not let him come near.

  “Let’s go,” said the pasha. “Let it appease its grief over the grave. It too has a soul. And later, don’t worry, hunger will compel it to stop. The dead man’s Moor is to remain close by and keep watch. Let him give it fodder and water. And when it has calmed down, he’s to bring it to me.”

  They all moved off toward the town, the pasha contentedly at their head. Allah was great and good and a friend to the pasha. How often had he desired that horse! How often he had longed to grip it between his knees and to remember his youth! If he were to be offered all the women of Megalokastro and then to be given the choice: these women or the horsehe would choose the horse. The devil could take the women! And now, my God, Thou art munificent! Thou killest Nuri Bey and makest me a present of his horse!

  They passed the old fortifications outside Megalokastro, where fruit and vegetables were now planted. In the sunset light a Venetian lion glowed red above the stone battlements. A swarm of ravens was returning soundlessly to the ruined towers from the day’s hunting. Through the evening stillness Megalokastro was barking, neighing and shouting in the distance, and still farther off roared the sea.

  The pasha halted, and spoke to the agas gathered about him:

  “Remember, the fate of Crete is hanging by a hair. Nurithis I swear by Godkilled himself. Do not make him the banner of a Turkish campaign that would begin the slaughter afresh. By the Prophet, I shall hang not only giaours from the plane tree butmark my words Mussulmans as well. Beware!”

  Then he cried, “Come, Suleiman,” and together with his Arab rode away from them, breathing heavily.

  The muezzin shook his head. The great ones quickly exchanged stealthy looks. This pasha was a man with no backbone, a Greek bastardwhat business had he in Crete? Was there ever an Anatolian wedding at which no lambs were slaughtered?

  The pasha had not yet disappeared through the fortress gate before the muezzin pulled Nuri’s bloodstained headband from his bosom and raised it on the tip of his staff as a banner.

  “Down with the giaours, children, down with them!” With this shrill cry he placed himself at the head of the crowd of agas.

  V Down below in the moat two gray-haired Christians were drawing water from the fountain and watering their beasts.

  “There we have two of them already,” cried the muezzin. “Palikars, at them!” Two palikars drew their knives.

  “With my blessing,” shouted the muezzin.

  The two slid down the slope through reeds and tall sunflowers and reached the fountain. They seized both the little old men and held their heads over its rim.

  The two heads rolled into the fountain.

  “Forward, brothers!” cried the muezzin. He raised his staff, and the sea breeze swelled the bloodstained headband. Then the troop poured over Megalokastro.

  The Christians, who had heard the noise of the returning funeral company a long way off, hastily shut their hops and workshops and ran to find shelter behind the doors of their houses.

  The muezzin placed himself in front of the big Turkish coffeehouse at the Kanea Gate and, raising his staff high, cried:

  “Allah, Allah, let the giaours taste your knives!” But old Selim Aga and the other sages led the muezzin into the coffeehouse and ordered coffee, Turkish Delight and a narghile, to calm him down. Then they fetched Efendina and installed him on a stool in the middle of the room. They ordered him to tell a story of women and handsome boys, to deflect the muezzin’s mind from blood and masc”r;res.

  The c^ys went by uneasily. Hourly the Greeks trembled, lest one noon they find the fortress gates shut and themselves caught in a trap. They were few, and the Turks in their overwhelming numbers could easily finish them off.

  Then came fresh Job’s tidings. The Turks had broken into Agaratho monastery and murdered the brave Abbot Agathangelos. They had come on him at night, sleeping on the roof. He had been to Thrapsamos to consecrate a church, and as he lay full of food and drink in a heavy slumber, they hacked off his head. One murder led to another. Four days later Agathangelos’ cousin, a monk from Vrondisi, the monastery at the foot of Psiloritis, came down to the rich Turkish village of Suros and killed its bloodthirsty aga, just as he had bound two Christians to the treadmill of the well in his garden and was making them turn the wheel.

  The Turks in the Greek villages took fright andjoaded their asses and mules with all the household good’s they could carryclothes, coppers, cradles,’ cooking utensils and their hanums, children and babes in swaddling clothes,
and fled to Megalokastro, to the protection of the military. The peaceful and fearful among the Christians, for their part, fled with their families and household goods into the mountains.

  The pasha was at his wits’ end. For the first time he found himself in a Cretan revolution. He was not the man for such an upheaval. The good-natured Anatolian loved amusements, fine cooking and sleep. Why the devil were these Cretans brawling with one another? And why just now, when he had taken possession of Nuri’s famous stallion? He wanted to feed it with sugar and give it water to drink out of his hollowed hands, to win it over. And now this damned Crete must go and have a revolution! He did not know what to do. He went to the Metropolitan and implored him: “Metropolitan Effendi, pronounce an anathema, say that anyone who kills a Turk will find no peace in the grave.” He rushed out to the Turkish villages. “Don’t run away and leave your houses, you idiots,” he told them at the top of his voice. “I swear, not a nose shall bleed. I have already sent a report to Constantinople, and soon troops will arrive and restore order.”

  But he did not succeed by these means in stamping out the fire. There came another piece of news: “Captain Thodores at noon today set fire to a Turkish village in the Lasithi.”

  The agas, full of rage, went armed to the pasha.

  “Pasha Effendi, the mischief is spreading, the giaours have lost all shame. They’re burning our villages. Have you heard what has happened in the Lasithi?”

  ‘“Who is this Captain Thodores? It’s the first time I’ve heard of him,” the pasha said, playing peevishly with his beads.

  An aga from Petrokefalo jumped up.

  “A young stripling from an accursed stock! It was his father, Manusakas, who maimed Nuri. His uncle is Michales, that Captain Wildboar. This downy-chin has the impertinence to attack us! If you don’t have him caught and pilloried, we shall set fire to the Greek quarter of Megalokastro. We wanted to tell you that, Pasha Effendi. You just think of how you can put it right with the Sultan afterwards!”

  “In the name of the Prophet, don’t commit such an outrage, you devils!” yelled the pasha. “My head’s whirling! When the Sultan hears of what you’ve done, I shall be finished!”

  “Then catch Thodores and put him in the pillory. If not, we’ll lay Megalokastro in ashes.”

  “How can I catch him? Where is he?”

  “In the Lasithi. Send soldiers.”

  He sent soldiers, who tramped through the Lasithi mountains. Thodores gathered his friends about him, young men with adventure in their blood.

  Thodores had been luring the agas of Petrokefalo from mountain to mountain. They had sworn his downfall, to avenge the blood of Hussein. For the most part Thodores had been alone; sometimes he had a few daring comrades with him. They had begun shooting, and when things got too hot they escaped over the precipices. He carried his father’s gun and wore his father’s boots and torn, sweat-stained headband. He felt that his father’s manhood had passed to him from his clothes. His father had risen again, father and son were now one, and Thodores grew stronger and riper from one day to the next. His words, too, acquired weight, and his opinions were respected.

  More and more Greeks gathered around him when the soldiers began to thrust into the mountains. About twenty palikars had followed his call.

  “Turkey is out for our blood,” Thodores cried, “that is why I appeal to you, brothers! Do you know what has happened? From our villages the spark has now flown to Megalokastro. From there it will reach Rethymno and from there Kanea. Soon all Crete will be burning. Don’t lose courage! Remember that those dogs are not just hunting a murderer. Even if they catch him, they won’t lay down their weapons. They’re hunting the whole of Christendom! Our grandfathers and our fathers knew that before us. Now our time has come.” He unfolded the flag he had taken from his father’s trunk, and they saw the inscription: FREEDOM OR DEATH.

  When the pasha heard, he was seized with rage. He hurried out to seek the Metropolitan. The giaours’ pope would have an account to settle with him. He took the

  Arab with him and growled about his ill luck all the way. The anxiety about Crete was not the only one. This morning he had had another piece of bad news. Nuri’s servant had come running from the cemetery to tell him that the horse was lying dead on the grave. He had refused both food and water.

  “I gave it to him, Pasha Effendi, but he wouldn’t touch it. He wanted to die.”

  The sun was high. The muezzin craned his neck from the minaret and announced the great virtue of prayer and the mercy of God.

  The Metropolitan sat on his broad divan, with his rosary between his fingers, conversing with the learned Hadjisavas in low tones. In his thoughts he was back once more in the years of his youth, when he had been archimandrite in Kiev and Representative of the Holy Sepul-cher. His head was full of Russia. What a blessing of God that country was! what a soil, what corn, butter, smoked fish and caviar it possessed! And then the golden domes on the churches, and the silver icon-shrines, and the pearls, sapphires and rubies on the Gospels!

  “As long as Russia survives, Hadjisavas, I am afraid of nothing,” he said. “One day Russia will open her mouth and swallow Turkey. And then Crete will see freedom. We have no other hope.”

  But Hadjisavas was looking absent-mindedly out of the window. A sultry bora was blowing. Hadjisavas had recently been on his father’s land near Aja-Irini, an hour’s distance from Megalokastro, andwhether it had been a message from God, or put into his mind by the old times he had been studyingthe idea had occurred to him that this soil might be concealing a celebrated ancient city. And there, as he scratched about with the iron tip of his stick in the field, by the bank of a brook, a glittering thing had rolled out from the moist earth. A golden ring!

  He had just shown it to the Metropolitan. Two figures were engraved on the ring: a woman with exuberant hips, holding a double ax in her hands, and near her a naked man of slender buildjust like the Cretans of today ith his foot poised to dance. Above them both was placed a seal, a half moon.

  He now laid it in the Metropolitan’s palm and said: “In God’s name, Bishop, hide it. No one must hear of it. What treasures that soil must hide, what golden ornaments of the dead! But we are slaves. If we reveal the treasure now, Turkey will rob us of it. Let us be patient. As soon as Crete is freed, may some other Greek dig up the ancient city and win the renown.”

  The Metropolitan shook his head. All that was very nice, but he had many, many souls to care for. What concern of his were things which the earth had swallowed up thousands of years ago? He listened politely, but tried to lead the conversation back to present-day Crete and to Moscow.

  Hadjisavas was put out. “Your Reverence expects freedom from Moscow, the people expect it from guns, and I from this ring, which you, Bishop, despise.”

  Murzuflos opened the door. “The pasha, most reverend Bishop,” he said.

  Hadjisavas rose with a laugh. “The Anatolian has not done with the Cretans yet?” He kissed the Metropolitan’s hand, and made his escape through a concealed side door.

  As he entered, the pasha began immediately to shout.

  “Metropolitan Effendithe Cretans have raised the flag and are demanding freedom. What freedom? I don’t understand. If you obey God, in Whom you believe, and do what He commands you, do you then complain of being a slave and raise a banner and demand freedom? No! Isn’t it the same with God’s representative on earth, the Sultan? What devil’s game is going on here in Crete, to rob me of peace?”

  “What happens, though, if you obey a god in whom you don’t believe, Pasha Effendi?” the Metropolitan replied. “The Cretans don’t believe in the Sultan. That’s why they feel they are slaves and seek freedom.”

  The pasha put his hands to his temples; he could not understand. He kicked the door open and went out. When he reached home, he sat down at the window and gazed through a small telescope at the sea, to see if the Turkish ships with more soldiers were coming yet. The soldiers •would make everything cl
ear and restore order…,

  Behind his door Captain Michales waited with two loaded pistols. Each evening he sent his wife with the baby in her arms, accompanied by Thrasaki and Renio, to spend the night with one of the neighbor’s wives. He remained alone hi the house. But after a few days he said to Thrasaki, “You will stay here with me; you must get used to it.” After that, father and son kept watch together. For several days nothing happened. This Sunday, Captain Michales was even enjoying a rest hi bed. While he was entangled in reflections, there came a heavy knocking at the street door. He heard screaming and howling, and he recognized the voice of old Marjora, a relative, whom Tityros had recently brought hi from the country to help his wife with the marketing and cooking. He had also thought it would be a consolation to have one of his own people hi the house. Captain Michales peered through the little window. Old Marjora stood in , the middle of the yard, shrieking and tearing her hair.

  “Hey, Marjora, what’s all the screaming about? Come up!” he ordered.

  With trembling jaws she stood before Captain Michales’ bed. She tried to speak, but her words were unintelligible.

  “What are you saying?” Captain Michales shouted. “Diamandes? What the devil’s the matter with him?”

  “He’s dead!” shrieked the old woman. “We found him just now hi his bed. Stiff! Vangelio is screaming and beating her breast. She’s shaken him, taken him hi her arms, rubbed him with oil of roses and with vinegar. But he remains stiff! He’s been poisoned. He’s dead.”

  “Poisoned? How do you know that? Who poisoned him?”

  “He’s dark green hi the face.” “I’ll go back with you.”

  “Don’t you breathe a word about it!” he told his wife, as he followed old Marjora through the street door.

  At the end of the street, close to Idomeneas’ Fpuntaip, lay his brother’s house. He went through the door, which was standing open. From the bedroom Vangelio could be heard wailing and beating her breast. Tityros, his teeth chattering, cowered hi the lower room, on a corner of the divan.