Thief's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "You have no idea who it is?"

  "Barring that it's a vizier's ring, master. I vaguely recognised the face from his visits to the Topkapi while I've been on duty. Foul to think that a man of such position has been consorting with a Christian whore, master."

  "If that's what's happened" Bin Murad replied, suspiciously.

  "Sir?"

  "This is the ring of Muharrem Bin Yusuf, the vizier of his majesty's treasury. As you surmised: a very important man. And 'til now a man of taste; above reproach. It seems unlikely that he had willingly placed himself in such a position. I've never heard of him consorting with the unclean infidel; he has a wife who is both noble and comely, after all."

  "It appeared very much voluntary to me, master."

  "Quiet!" snapped Bin Murad. "Your information is important to me; your opinions are not."

  Lykaion bowed curtly - as low as custom demanded, yet almost shallow enough to convey an insult.

  A silence fell over the room, and Lykaion was suddenly less pleased at their solitude. When he'd first entered and begun to relate his tale, he'd been grateful they'd been alone, given the likelihood of a tongue-lashing. Now, as the situation had moved beyond that and into the vague region almost of indirect accusations, he was wishing there was some kind of witness in the room with them. It was not unknown for Bin Murad to lash out and seriously injure a man merely to assuage his own temper.

  "None of this adds up very convincingly, soldier."

  "Sir?"

  "A beggar in the street accosts you on the way to the harbour to look at a potential incident half way across the city? Ridiculous!"

  "I expect I was the nearest Janissary the man could find, master. We are rarely to be found near the Greek and Jewish areas - even the policing forces of the provost."

  "And with good reason!" Bin Murad spat with apparent distaste. "The scum should be kicked out of the city or enslaved, converted and utilised. It is an offence in the eyes of Allah to have this holy city infested with such infidels."

  Lykaion had his mouth almost open to rebut with a gentle reminder that both Sultan Bayezid and his father had been proactive in attracting and settling the foreign populations, albeit in their own regions, and that Bayezid was actively encouraging Jewish immigration. Gainsaying the commander of the Fourteenth Cemaat Orta, though, was a fast track to reassignment in a shitty duty. And/or pain…

  "Well whatever we turn up," the commander resumed, "you're going to have to answer some searching and difficult questions."

  "I understand, master."

  "I will bring this matter to the attention of agha himself. Until he is fully briefed and decides how to proceed, you are confined to barracks. You will not leave your room, except to perform your ablutions and to eat in the mess hall. Is that understood?"

  A sinking feeling driving all the enthusiasm from him, Lykaion saluted.

  "I do, sir."

  "Then go."

  Without another word, and rather grateful to be leaving the office, the young soldier turned and strode from the room. A last glance before he left the doorway and rounded the corner revealed Hamza Bin Murad rising from his chair with the most astoundingly unpleasant smile on his face that Lykaion had ever seen. He shuddered as he turned the corner to the outer vestibule which, expensive marble and gold decoration as it might be, felt to Lykaion like the corridor that leads to the execution ground. The offices of three lesser orta officers stood along the outer wall along this corridor: the standard bearer, the barrack chief, and the 'Asci Usta', second only to the commander.

  Even before Lykaion had fully rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, Bin Murad's voice roared out from his office, calling for the Asci Usta. The second in command, a long-standing veteran and the nearest thing the commander had to a friend, came barrelling out of his office, jamming his ceremonial hat on his balding pate, and ran for the office, almost colliding with Lykaion on the way but paying him no more attention than a brief irritated glance. When Bin Murad called, you ran; simple as that.

  Lykaion strode to the end of the corridor and opened the heavy, decorative door that separated the senior officers' area from the general rooms of the soldiers. Allowing the portal to slam shut, he ignored the half dozen men in the wide passageway beyond, two of whom were polishing unit insignia, one carrying an armful of partially-finished gun stocks, and the others chatting amiably. Taking a deep breath and grateful that he'd been granted time to think some more about his story, he slumped back against the wall.

  It had been stupid, and he knew it.

  He'd been considerably more rattled by what his brother showed him than he'd allowed Skiouros to know. The entire journey back across the city, he'd tried hard to concentrate on formulating a convincing story, but images of dismembered women - who all bore a disturbing mental resemblance to his mother - kept encroaching on his thoughts and wrecking his concentration. Moreover, even the fish market he passed had failed to remove the stench of death from his nostrils. He should have continued with his duty for the day down at the port, and then spent the night contemplating his course of action first - would have done, if he'd been thinking straight.

  But no.

  He'd hurried straight into Bin Murad's office and started pouring out the story. May Allah, the Prophet and the Prophet Isa damn Skiouros for doing this to him. He'd been halfway through the story, watching the suspicion and anger building in his commander, before he'd even noticed all the gaping holes and obvious falsities in it. Now he would have to spend the next night in his room thinking up every possible excuse to every conceivable question in preparation for a grilling by the higher authorities.

  It suddenly occurred to him that there was the very real possibility that this could go very badly for him, and his mind filled with images of the cells at the Blachernae palace where suspected traitors and spies were dealt with.

  He shuddered as he realised that all he was doing by protecting his brother was putting his own hide in danger. It would soon come out when they questioned him that Skiouros had been instrumental in all of this and that Lykaion had merely been a messenger - perhaps an interpreter. But by then he would be bleeding and singed in the cells.

  Damn Skiouros!

  Why should Lykaion suffer questioning and torture to save the little thief?

  Standing, his hand reached for the door handle before he paused again.

  Would revealing that his brother had some part in this really make any difference? Could he truly put Skiouros in the firing line in order to protect himself? He'd always been actively disapproving of the idiot's life choices, and treated him with anger and even contempt, but much of that was born of a desperate need to try and turn Skiouros around and make him grow up. He'd never contemplated harming him beyond a reproachful slap.

  Biting his lip, Lykaion fumed in his quandary. Perhaps there was a way he could do something other than assigning or accepting culpability? He could reveal that he had been on the way to see Skiouros at the time. That would explain why he was in the Greek enclave. From there, he could easily claim the rest of the story as truth. It would be considerably more plausible, for sure; that would explain the geographical anomaly in the tale. There was the very faintest possibility that someone would remember a deserter from the Devsirme intake all those years ago, but the chances were very small. More than half a decade of war had been fought since then, and the record keepers of that time would be long moved on or dead now.

  Revealing his fraternal connections and visits would mean punishment for breaking regulations, but he could stand a beating or cessation of pay, or a cut in rations. That way neither he nor Skiouros would have to face real danger.

  It was the only clear answer.

  Setting a grim look and a firm jaw, Lykaion pulled open the door to return to Bin Murad's office and take a little punishment to prevent a greater one...

  And his world fell apart beneath his feet.

  "You'll find Bin Nikos in his barrack room" the commander
was saying. Lykaion froze in the doorway. Something about the tone of his voice was not right - not angry, but malicious.

  "Are you sure, master?"

  "You would question me, Asul?"

  "Of course not, master. It just seems so incredible."

  "Have him taken away immediately. We cannot risk this killer roaming the barracks freely. Make sure you use a strong escort who are not considered close to him. I will inform the agha and we will then investigate the house."

  "By your command, sir."

  Around the corner, the cracked-open door in his hand, Lykaion's blood ran cold. Surely there was no reason? No evidence? This couldn't possibly be happening.

  "And Asul?"

  "Yes, master?"

  "Before you do so, have the barrack entrances sealed and the other orta commanders informed. Let's not risk this murderous dog evading you."

  Lykaion had to resist the urge to let go of the handle and run. If the door slammed, it would alert Asul and Bin Murad to his eavesdropping. Slowly, he inched the door silently shut and stood still, shock and disbelief flooding him. What should he do?

  What could he do?

  There was no evidence tying him to the crime, but then there was no evidence to the contrary either. And, damn Skiouros to an eternity of pain, any in-depth questioning would reveal that he was absent from the barracks for a time that could be seen to fit the killing, despite the fact that he was actually arguing with his brother at the time. He was trapped, and the vicious, blood-hungry dog that was Hamza Bin Murad would tear him to pieces in short order.

  He had to run! So many years building up a reputable position in one of the most important orta in the empire, faithfully following Islam and the specific doctrines of the Janissaries, of serving the Sultans and protecting Ottoman interests and it all came down to this. Two choices: run like a criminal and shatter any doubt of his guilt in the eyes of his peers, or stay and take what was almost certainly a death sentence and probable torture due to his inability to prove his innocence.

  Allah help me!

  Something deep in his soul beseeched another God he'd almost forgotten.

  He had to run, but first he would have to get to his room and collect all his effects.

  No. No time for that. His frowned-upon Christian amulet that lay hidden in his goods - the only reminder of his family and his former life - would only incriminate him further, but if he should return to the room and retrieve all things of import, he would risk being too late and becoming trapped in the barracks.

  Feeling his body shaking with uncontrollable fear and fury, he turned and moved with a very deliberate and casual slowness along the vestibule, praying over and over that his shaking was not openly visible and that the sweat he could feel pouring from his brow and soaking his shirt would not attract undue attention.

  The three chatting soldiers leaning against the wall opposite looked across at him as he walked and Lykaion felt the chill of fear as he saw suspicion and accusation in their faces. The shaking reached his knees and he had to force himself to walk on, almost breaking into a panicked run. One of the guards smiled in faint recognition and nodded at him, forcing him to realise just how much his nerves were influencing his senses.

  Maintaining a forcibly steady gait, he turned into the corridor that led to the kitchens. The word would be going out now to the guards at the various doors, but the main front entrance and the stable and artillery gates would be the first places to be locked down. Other, smaller doors would follow, but the scullery entrance that the slop-slaves and water bearers used would be one of the last to receive the order.

  Trying to appear purposeful - no one ever questioned a man with a purposeful look and a steady stride - he entered the kitchens, where a number of veterans were busy preparing the food for the noon meal, the servants and slaves rushing about their assigned tasks. The kitchens, pantries and stores for the Janissary barracks were cavernous and sprawling, and it was easy for a single soldier to blend in and become lost within them.

  As an afterthought, he moved alongside a lengthy wooden table and swept up a stack of flatbreads on a tray of Persian walnut. Bearing them aloft as though performing a chore, he strode through the kitchens, virtually invisible through his mundanity.

  Turning into a passage, he strode past the butter and cheese storage pantries and the racks of yogurt maturing in its goat-skin bags. Ahead, at the far end of a long corridor of storeroom entrances, he could see the door that was his ultimate goal.

  Servants and slaves scurried in and out of the doors bearing trays, bags and bowls, and Lykaion found that he had to weave in and out of them, holding aloft his tray.

  One of the servants paused in his work and touched his forehead in respectful recognition, a happy grin plastered across his face. It took a moment for Lykaion to realise it was the Slavic water bearer who'd delivered him a message and to whom he'd given a silver akce that Skiouros still owed him for.

  Nodding absently at the boy - it was important right now to appear entirely ordinary and unobtrusive - he strode towards the door. Before the last approach, he dipped into an unoccupied side room, placing his tray of loaves on one of the few shelf spaces available. With a deep breath, he reached into his purse and withdrew Bin Murad's stamped order from this morning, sending him to the port to oversee the arrival of new cannon. Hopefully it would still seem appropriately valid; it was still only mid-morning, after all.

  Returning to the corridor, adjusting his coat and collar, he approached the two guards of the Third Cemaat Orta, whose area of responsibility was the kitchens, reaching out with the orders, his other hand on his belt within easy reach of the sword hilt, in case things suddenly turned bad.

  The two men bent forward to look over the orders and one nodded and stood back. The other paused and frowned and Lykaion's heart skipped a beat before the man straightened and grinned, handing the slip back.

  "You're late leaving. That ship'll have docked hours ago. Wouldn't want to be you when your commander finds out."

  Lykaion forced a grin and hoped it didn't look panicked and false.

  "It's my commander that caused the delay!"

  "Isn't it always the way? Good luck out in the cold." The guard heaved open the door and Lykaion strode through into the fresh air, tension still holding him stiff and rigid until the door clicked shut behind him. Suddenly all the pent up fear and anger flooded out of him and he almost collapsed, the jelly-like shaking in his legs nearly unmanning him.

  He was not safe yet, though. The orders would even now be racing around the barracks: Lock the doors; bar the gates; find the murderer Hussein Bin Nikos.

  His blood pounding in his ears, legs shaking uncontrollably, Lykaion strode slowly and purposefully across the square until he passed the old Byzantine bath house at the corner of the Mese street and turned the corner, the barracks disappearing from sight behind him.

  There was only one clear destination in his mind: the 'bloody' church of Saint Mary of the Mongols, where he would scratch his name and wait for Skiouros.

  His life in tatters, Lykaion ran.

  Chapter 4 – Acts of Gods and men

  * Persembe (Thursday) afternoon *

  Skiouros clambered blearily from his bed, kicking aside the cheap, itchy wool blankets and dropping his feet to the uneven wooden floor and its threadbare ancient rug. Sunlight streamed through the inadequate curtains with their moth-eaten holes and dappled the mouldy wall. He'd managed four hours of sleep, interrupted only briefly by the second call to prayer of the city's Muezzin, and the afternoon would now be wearing on.

  It had been clear as he had left Lykaion that he would achieve nothing else that day without at least a little rest, and he'd been asleep almost before he touched the thin mattress. In a way it was a shame, since he'd intended on hovering near the house of the yellow columns to try and observe events, but exhaustion had scuppered that plan and he'd retired to his room instead.

  Very likely the whore's house was now neat
and clear, the Janissaries having performed every check they could and made their important discoveries. The woman's body would have been delivered to the church of Saint John the Forerunner - where the priest would have fainted at the sight - while the vizier would have been cleaned up and borne to the palace. And Lykaion would be fuming over having become involved in the matter in the first place and calling down the wrath of his heretical Allah on him.

  The image of his brother popped into his mind and he decided that it would have been inopportune anyway to have tried even subtly to observe the Janissaries at the house without checking first that he was safe.

  And that meant a visit to the 'Bloody' church.

  Flapping his arms in a birdlike fashion to try and diffuse the odour of sleep-sweat, he threw on his doublet, leaving it unfastened, and pulled on his new boots, shivering at the cold even in his small room. This particular building had been subdivided by its greedy landlord into single rooms, each of which was rented out for a small fee that suited the purse of the more impoverished citizen, yet which netted him a tidy sum when combined. With eight rooms on each of three floors it was a healthy investment, and a number of men in the city had become quite well off catering for men like Skiouros.

  Pulling aside the curtain, he made his habitual check of the street for angry merchants, short-changed Jewish moneylenders, cheated thugs, irritable zealots and inflexible Ottoman Janissaries, all of which were a constant possibility and threat. The narrow alley that ran around the back of his building was empty apart from a stray dog eating something unpleasant among the murk. A glance up to the balcony of the room above - a balcony cost an extra two akce a week, which was hardly worth it for the rickety death traps - told him that his upstairs neighbour was busy with his washing as a shirt and braes, washed in the fountain at the street's end, dangled, dripping from the rail.