“Shh!” He raised one hand to his lips, and fanned the air with the other. His eyes rolled from side to side, pantomiming caution. Yashim grinned. At least he knew something about the Auspicious Event.
“Do you want names? Or only numbers?”
Yashim was surprised.
“Numbers.”
“You’ll want the digest, then. Don’t go away.”
He turned and teetered away into the darkness. At length, Yashim saw the distant candle begin to move, swaying a little until it disappeared. Behind the stacks, he supposed.
Yashim did not know the archive well, just well enough to understand that its organisation was comprehensive and inspired. If a vizier at the divan, or council meeting, needed a document or reference, be it ever so remote in time, or obscure by nature, the archivists would be able to locate it in a matter of minutes. Four or five centuries of Ottoman history were preserved in here: orders, letters, census returns, tax liabilities, proclamations from the throne and petitions running the other way, details of employment, promotion—and demotion, biographies of the more exalted officials, details of expenses, campaign maps, governor’s reports—all going back to the fourteenth century, when the Ottomans first expanded out of Anatolia across the Dardanelles, into Europe.
He heard footsteps returning. The candle and its willowy bearer appeared out of the darkness. Apart from the candle, Ibou’s hands were empty.
“No luck?” Yashim could not keep a trace of condescension out of his voice.
“Mmm-mmm,” the young man hummed. “Let’s just take a look.”
He turned up a series of wall lights above the reading bench, and knelt on a cushion. Above the bench itself ran a shelf containing nothing but tall, chunky ledgers with green spines, one of which the boy pulled down with a thud and opened on the bench. The thick pages crackled as he turned them over, humming quietly to himself. Eventually he ran his finger down a column on the page and stopped.
“Got it now?”
“We’ll get there eventually,” Ibou said. He closed the ledger with a heavy whump! and lifted it lightly back into place. Then he sauntered over to a set of drawers built into the wall near the door, and pulled one out. From it, he selected a card.
“Oh.” He looked at Yashim: it was a look of sadness. “Out,” he said. “Not you. You’re nice. I mean the records you wanted.”
“Out? To whom?”
“Tsk, tsk. That’s not for me to say.”
Ibou waved the little card in front of his face as if he were opening and shutting a fan, with a flick of the wrist.
“No. No, of course not.” Yashim frowned. “I was hoping though—”
“Yes?”
“I wondered if you could possibly tell me what revenue the beyerlik of Varna derived from…from mining rights in the 16703.”
Ibou put his lips together and blew. He looked, thought Yashim, as if he were about to give the figures from memory.
“Any particular year? Or just the whole decade?”
“1677—”
“One moment please.”
He popped the card face down on the open drawer, picked up the candle, and in a moment had vanished behind the stacks. Yashim stepped forward, picked up the card and read:
Janissary rolls; 7-3-8-114; digest:fig., 1825.
By command.
He put back the card, puzzled.
A minute later, as he and Ibou pored over a thick roll of yellowing parchment which smelt powerfully of sheepskin and on which, to his infinite lack of interest, various sums and comments were recorded relative to the Varna beyerlik for the year 1677, he popped the question.
“What does ‘By command’ mean, Ibou? The sultan?”
Ibou frowned.
“Have you been peeping?”
Yashim grinned. “It’s just a phrase I’ve heard, somewhere.”
“I see.” Ibou’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Don’t touch the scroll, please. Well, it could mean the sultan. But it probably doesn’t. It certainly won’t mean, for instance, the Halberdiers of the Tresses, or the gardeners, or any of the cooks. Obviously we’d put them in, by their rank and place.”
“Then who?”
Ibou gestured slyly to the parchment roll. “Are you interested in this, or is it just an excuse to come and chat?”
“It’s just an excuse. Who?”
The archivist carefully rolled the parchment up. He tied it again with a length of purple ribbon and picked it up.
“Just let me set everything in order.”
Yashim chuckled to himself as he watched the boy prowling, loose-limbed and insufferably fluid, over to the drawers. He tucked the card back into its place, ran the drawer shut with his long fingers, and disappeared into the stacks with the candle. God help the older men! He’d never known such coquetterie. But he was also impressed. Ibou looked and sounded like a bit of African fluff but he certainly knew his way around. And not just among the dusty records, either, as he could see.
He came back very quickly.
“By command,” Yashim prompted.
“The imperial household. The sultan, his family, his chief officers.”
“The imperial women?”
“Of course. All the sultan’s family. Not their slaves, mind you.”
“By command.” Yashim mused. “Ibou, who do you think wanted the book?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Could it be—”
He shrugged, gave up.
“Who? Who are you thinking of?”
The archivist flipped his hand dismissively.
“No one. Nothing. I didn’t know what I was going to say.”
Yashim decided to let it pass.
“I wonder, though, where I could find out what I want to know?”
Ibou cocked his head and gazed at one of the lamps on the wall.
“Ask one of the foreign embassies. I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Yashim began to smile at the sally. But why not? he wondered. It was exactly the sort of information they would be likely to have.
He looked curiously at Ibou. But Ibou had raised the back of his hand to his chin and was gazing, innocently, at the lamp.
[ 27 ]
Damn!” Preen hadn’t thought of money.
Yorg the Pimp thought of nothing else.
“What, kocek dancer, are we just sitting round together having a drink? Swapping tales? No. You come across and ask me for some information. Something you want, perhaps I have. A trade.”
He gave her a crooked smile and tapped his head. “My shop.”
To Preen, it looked as though Yorg’s information was stored elsewhere: in his hump. Poisonous stuff, and he was full of it.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Yorg’s eyes clicked past her like a lizard’s.
“You’ve got friends, I see.”
“Some boys. You haven’t answered my question.”
His eyes swivelled back to her.
“Oh, I think so,” he said softly. “You’ve got something I can use, right, kocek? 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 favour, kocek,” he spat.
He watched her, sensing a little victory.
“That guy deserves a real woman, don’t you think?” Kocek 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.”
&nbs
p; She went back to her table. Mina looked up, but the smile on her lips vanished when she saw the crookbacked 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 ]
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 heller skelter, & little saucers, & Shepherdesses & Coffee pots & coloured 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 Mustafa has done there in the last 400 years. He’s a good 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 an historian! Fizerly spoke some turkish to him and the chap replied in perfect French. Fizerly and I exchanged glances -1 thought I would die of laughter—but the turk v serious and wanted to investigate Janissary regiments &c. The Amb says Istanbul is much duller without the Janissaries, Fizerly tells me. Not too dull for
Yr loving bro., &c
“Who are you working for?”
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 did: 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 trap 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 182,6? A thousand, possibly, at the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt which 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 realised 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. He didn’t want to lie. Anyway, it was too late. 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 which 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 burnous. 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.
“They are a forbidden sect,” said the imam.
Not only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. Completely 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 gazi, 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 amongst them. Many of these Turkish gazi 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.”
2006 - The Janissary Tree Page 8