Pasha's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  ‘Allah despises idiots,’ spat Şehzade Korkut, casting a gaze of malice down at the pile of bodies before cracking the neck of his lavta over his knee and dropping the shattered instrument down atop them.

  ‘Will someone explain to me what’s going on?’

  Dragi turned to the angry, confused Diego de Teba and gave a sad smile. ‘Şehzade Korkut is engaged simultaneously in two of his favourite pursuits: musical poetry, and the violent eradication of heresy.’

  ‘He’s got some bloody nerve,’ Parmenio said. ‘This is hardly somewhere private to carry out so many blatant murders. There must be two dozen citizens wandering around in the hippodrome.’

  ‘He has nothing to fear from them,’ Skiouros replied. ‘No one would dare confront the sons of the sultan, even his victims.’ He turned to Dragi with a sour look. ‘And this you brought me to see? Remember that I have faced the fanatic Etci Hassan. The fiery intolerance of certain sectors of your society is nothing new to me. Christian will likely always be persecuted by Muslim, and vice versa. And the Jew by both,’ he added with a faint hint of disgust.

  ‘Those broken bodies are not Christians, Skiouros. Nor are they Jews. In the eyes of Şehzade Korkut – in all other respects the sultan’s most learned and affable son – the followers of the cross or the sons of David should be flayed and burned in public spectacle. No. These are other followers of the Qur’an, though considered heretics. Followers of Sufism or of Alevism or Hurufism. Shi’a believers. To men such as Korkut, these heretics are nothing. They are less than nothing. They are not even worthy of public display, but of silent, mechanical disposal.’

  He gestured to the figure in the brick arches before them. ‘The refrains the prince has been reciting are by Nesimi, an Azeri Turk poet and Hurufi teacher who was flayed alive for his heresy in Aleppo almost a century ago. They advocate the human form as the ultimate expression of God and even that God lives within the human form. The prince’s answering verses are sacred hadith that forbid the creation of likenesses of living creatures. Misguided replies, and shot wide of the mark, but then one should never expect clarity from the extreme.’

  Skiouros shook his head. Korkut was popular in the Ottoman court. He it had been who had acted as regent on the death of Mehmet the conqueror until the day Bayezid could reach the city and assume the throne. His granted governorship of Sarahun showed the clear favour of his father, for he was notably closer to the city than his brothers. And he was said to be a scholar and a poet which, it seemed, he may very well be. But he was also a devout, even radical Sunni, and there had been tales – spoken under the breath and only in the private places of the non-Turk sectors the city – that he would be a murderous opponent of the foreign enclaves if he succeeded the throne.

  Skiouros felt a shiver run up his spine.

  ‘Your point is well taken, Dragi. And I begin to see what this is all about. That night when we first arrived, our ageing host called me something, though I couldn’t quite work it out at the time, what with all the wine. But it has nagged at me until the answer came just now. Kral yapımcı, he said. King maker. And you have found ways to show us two of the three crown princes of the empire, so I presume you have Şehzade Selim hiding in a closet somewhere, awaiting our viewing?’

  He noted the inscrutable look on the Romani’s face and sighed. ‘Very well. You have me interested at the least. Something is in the wind for the coming festival, and one of these three will be ascendant, I presume? I was not aware that the sultan was in declining health?’

  Again, Dragi’s face was unreadable.

  ‘And while Ahmet would be a disaster for the security of the empire, Korkut would be a disaster for its internal peace. Yet I am almost certain that Selim will be no better – he has the darkest and sourest reputation of the three. And whatever your strange tales might suggest, I have no more say in their succession than anyone. The throne will be won by the strongest and the wiliest.’

  ‘All life is balance, Skiouros. The wise know this. And there will always be a king maker, and a king breaker. Think on the potential result if one of them refuses his role.’ The Romani sighed. ‘In a perfect world, I would not force such matters on people outside my own community, and it grieves me to have to involve you, but I am a servant, not a master, and such decisions are rarely mine to make.’

  ‘Dragi, it is not my place to become involved in such things, any more than it is yours. The succession will be won by the strongest, as always.’

  ‘And if a king-breaker is already at work, pushing one particular candidate?’ the Romani replied flatly. ‘What value those successional rules then? Remember what you heard of Ahmet. Already he manoeuvres and gathers to his banner groups with power. Can you recall what Hadim Ali Paşa said: an ancient enemy supports Ahmed – and what more ancient enemy does the Osman line have than the knights of the cross? Are you willing to sit back and do nothing if the men who killed Cem Sultan try to repeat their success in the heart of the empire? And what of the sultan? What of Bayezid the Just? He is still hale and hearty. You once placed your very life on the line to protect him from assassins…’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Skiouros snapped in surprise, noting the look of astonishment on Diego’s face.

  ‘I know a great deal, Skiouros. Remember that. You risked your own life to save the sultan. Would you now sit back and let him be usurped by another, backed by powers unseen? Who would you see your precious just sultan replaced by? The megalomaniac or the zealot?’

  Dragi was angry. Spittle was flicking from his lips as he spat the words, causing Skiouros to step back in alarm. He had never seen Dragi show such emotion, and he was suddenly acutely aware that he had no idea of what the man was truly capable. Carefully, with mollifying hands raised, he took a steadying breath.

  ‘I gave you my word, Dragi, that I was yours until the day of the festival, and I meant it. I am just warning you that despite everything I have done over the years, I am no hero. I am no warrior or crusader for right. I am an orphaned former thief, trying to survive in a treacherous world. I will do what you ask of me as far as I am able, but do not expect great things of me. I fear I have proved time and again that greatness does not live in me.’

  Dragi seemed to have calmed and when he spoke again it was as though his anger had never shown itself. ‘Come, Skiouros.’

  The Romani walked across the room and descended the stairs once more. As he reached the entrance hall of the large structure, he paused, and the four of them watched Korkut, the Eagle of Sarahun, leave the door in the hippodrome’s substructures and, surrounded by almost a dozen heavy soldiers, climb back up to the top of the street. Once they were out of sight and earshot, Dragi led them from the house and by a snaking path to the grass and gravel slope at the bottom of the huge curve of bricked-up arches. Skiouros paused at the edge of the trees, listening to the sound of the numerous flies already at work on the bodies nearby in the early spring heat.

  ‘Come,’ Dragi urged him, somewhat forcefully, and Skiouros reluctantly did as he was bade. Parmenio and Diego shared unspoken thoughts and hung back a few paces.

  Skiouros looked at the pile of men.

  ‘What now.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Dragi answered. ‘Just look.’

  Skiouros peered at them with distaste. The four naked bodies had been painted with Arabic letters that Skiouros could not translate, and he peered at them.’

  ‘Twelve phrases on each. What do they say?’

  Dragi sighed. ‘They are the twelve imams that the Shi’a follow. It is an expression of their heresy. Look at them, though. Not at their wounds, or the slogans. Look at the people, Skiouros.’

  The Greek did so. Two were clearly bearded Turks from eastern Anatolia. He had seen plenty in the city over the years. One was a southerner – Levantine of some variety. The other… He frowned.

  ‘I know this man. I drank Salep with him on our first night here.’

  Dragi nodded. ‘He was one of my people. Though most of my
community are Sunni, there are Shi’a living peacefully among us. Elekchi Iusuf was one of those who went out to investigate your Hospitaller connection. He never returned, and now we know why. You see, Skiouros, how this whole matter is not some ancient Romani tale or some high conspiracy that is none of your concern. Such troubles touch all of us.’

  Skiouros stared down at the body of the man he had watched engaged in a lively dance with his wife mere days ago, and something settled in him. He opened his mouth to speak but as he did so, he was surprised to see the ghazi warrior attempt to rise to his knees again, but collapse to the ground once more with a gasp and a shudder.

  ‘Broken back,’ noted Dragi with no sign of emotion.

  Skiouros stared at the soldier for a moment, then reached down, drawing the sword from the unresisting ghazi’s side, and plunged the blade down where he judged the heart to be, driving it deep until it met unyielding rock. The warrior spasmed twice and then went still, his foot shaking a few more times before it too became motionless.

  ‘And what of Şehzade Selim then?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The Wolf of Trabzon?’

  ‘They say he is the darker of the princes.’

  ‘And they speak true. But, Skiouros, remember that the darkest part of the night heralds the bright dawn of the new day.’

  Skiouros stared down at the sword standing proud of the body. Each passing season seemed to drag his own soul down ever deeper into the darkness. Would there one day be a bright dawn for him?

  Skiouros stared at the three cups on the table before him. As he watched, the street-performer placed a ball under each cup and then spun the three in and out in intersecting, snaking patterns before lining them up once again. Skiouros shook his head in bafflement.

  ‘Choose.’

  With no clear understanding, he reached out and tapped the cup on the left. The man lifted it and Skiouros was less than surprised to find no ball there. The other two cups yielded their hidden spheres easily enough.

  ‘Now you,’ the man said, pointing to Skiouros’ left. He turned to see his reflection in the mirror, and boggled as that reflection acted independently, reaching out and tapping the middle cup. The game was played again, but the ball was not there for his reflection either.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘This is a practice. Your only practice,’ added the man. ‘Now you.’

  And this time, instead of a ball, he placed three intricately-carved ivory creatures beneath the cups: a wolf, an eagle and a lion. Skiouros felt panic grip him as he tried to decide which was the most important. Not the intolerant eagle, for certain, and not the dangerous lion. But even as the cup clacked down over the figure of the wolf, he couldn’t help but notice that the creature was snarling at him.

  Now was the time he wanted there to be nothing under the cup he chose, but he was certain he would have no such luck.

  His tired eyes tried to follow the quick, snapping movements of the cups, and though he worried he had lost it twice, he believed he still had the wolf. As the man asked him to choose, he tapped the centre cup with marginal confidence.

  The cup started to rise.

  Skiouros awoke with a start to find Diego leaning over him with a glass of water, his habitually-hard expression softened by the faint hazy grey atmosphere of the room.

  ‘Wha…?’

  ‘You were almost shouting in your sleep. You sounded panicked. I thought you were having a nightmare.’ He passed the glass to Skiouros, who took it gratefully and swigged the cold, clear water, still shaking and sweat-soaked.

  ‘I was. I was having a nightmare, Diego. The problem is: I’m awake now, and I’m fairly sure I’m still having it.’

  The Spanish swordsman gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and suspicion, and wandered away across the Romani collective’s house.

  Skiouros closed his eyes again and tried to picture the three cups. He couldn’t see what was under that middle one, even trying to extrapolate from the dream.

  ‘I shouldn’t be choosing,’ he whispered to himself. ‘It is not my job, any more than it is this king-breaker, wherever he might be.’

  And in that moment he realised he had made a decision that eased at least some of his troubles. The meaning at the heart of Dragi’s tale those months ago on board the ship off the coast of Sicily had been not to spend time deliberating and vying with his opposite number. If the king-maker and the king-breaker of the Romani tale had simply left the matter alone, one of the two princes would have won on his own merit in the end and the world would have been spared the cataclysmic end result of their meddling.

  No. The value of the king-maker and the king-breaker was not in their wisdom in choosing a successor. It was in their having enough wisdom to stay out of the matter altogether.

  He would do as Dragi asked until the time of the festival was up, but now he had a new goal: to persuade the Romani to his way of thinking.

  And yet somehow, as he sank back to sleep picturing that snarling wolf beneath the cup, the bared fangs gradually became a smile.

  Chapter seven – Of the darkest of places

  May 21st

  SKIOUROS looked over his shoulder at the figures of Parmenio and Diego, sitting in the shade of a yew tree and sharing a flask of ice cold water out of the sun’s unforgiving glare. The pair looked more than content with their lot. And well they might, thought the young Greek, turning his face once more to the monstrosity before him.

  The Yedikule – the fortress of the seven towers – was the most powerful and secure complex in the city. Constructed only three or four decades ago, this enormous fortification had been formed as an extension from the city walls, utilising four of its towers and adding three more and a curtain wall. In a grand show of Ottoman control the golden gate, through which so many Byzantine emperors had ridden in triumph, was now nothing more than a postern and flanking towers in this Turkish fortification.

  And while it resembled nothing more than a high, powerful, unassailable fortress, that was not the purpose for which it had been built. It was constructed by the conqueror Mehmet as a powerful gaol to hold the most important and dangerous of men. In recent years, the more accommodating Sultan Bayezid had also used it to house archives, and there was talk that the mint would soon be established within its staunch walls.

  But no matter how many studious men with ledgers or guard parties with chests of golden coin passed through its portal in one direction or the other, it was hard to force down the knowledge that its primary function was to see human beings pass through those gates, and corpses re-emerge. For the Yedikule was not only a place of internment, but also a place of execution.

  Skiouros swore he could detect the faint tang of blood and emptied bowels even from here, some twenty five yards from the walls. At this northern approach point inside the city, the wall angled slightly inwards between two of the largest towers and was pierced partway by a well-fortified gate, where closed and barred oak doors waited under the watchful eyes of the janissaries atop.

  His step faltered and Dragi cleared his throat meaningfully – a reminder to act confidently and naturally, and also to stop looking over his shoulder. He took, instead, to feeling itchy and uncomfortable in his snug outfit. The unknown tailor had delivered the ensemble to the Romani house that morning and, despite not having been measured for the fitting, Skiouros was more than a little impressed at the cut of the clothes that had been made so swiftly for him. He had argued against the deception altogether, of course, but his oath to Dragi tied him as tightly as any physical bonds and so he had sat patiently as one of the women had shaved him of his sun-bleached whiskers and tucked his hair up tight as she covered it with a white turban. A sleeveless red coat hung draped over his pale yellow shirt – through which his colourful tattoos were almost visible when the material pressed to the flesh, mustard-coloured trousers and soft brown boots completing an outfit that announced him to be an Ottoman citizen of above-modest social status, relatively well-off and
a follower of Islam. He had half expected an affluent turban and a jewelled staff the way things were going, but impersonating a Turk of means was dangerous enough. If discovered, his punishment would be severe and most certainly final.

  And to add a little extra tension to the vat of it in which he currently drowned, he was walking towards the gate of the Empire’s most infamous prison under the watchful gaze of the sultan’s own crack troops.

  He tried not to move his head as his eyes slid to either side. Dragi, to his left, was well turned out, dressed in his naval uniform and blatantly both a local and a native. On his right, the man he’d only met this morning strolled with purpose, his red skull cap and open-chested green shirt dusty and worn, drab by comparison. This was never going to work.

  And when it went wrong, his two close friends back across the road lounging under a tree would not be there to help, neither of them standing any chance of being able to pass as a Turk. Though they might be shaved and barbered to look like a Turk, their lack of the language nullified any real point in dressing them up. Only Skiouros, whose skin tone was close and who had a passable command of the tongue, might manage. Dragi had been insistent that such a guise would prove to be vital.

  He suddenly realised in a minor panic that he couldn’t actually remember a greeting in Turkish. In fact, as his eyes widened and his heart thumped ever faster, his mind seemed to be draining of every word he knew in their language. How did he even say ‘yes’ again? What was the word for… the word for… damn, he’d forgotten what he’d forgotten the word for!