The Siege

  The captain of the azabs asked to be allowed to speak. To the Pasha’s astonishment, Kara-Mukbil gave his support to the engineer. He did not say much. He reckoned the citadel should not be stormed until it had suffered a major bombardment from every one of the available guns. That way many lives would be saved. In conclusion he recommended that the assault should not begin before the walls had been breached in several places to a significant width. His last words were:

  “The greater the wounds in the wall, the lighter our men’s injuries will be.”

  “Shame on you, Kara-Mukbil, for speaking thus!” Old Tavxha cried out in his deep-throated voice.

  Kara-Mukbil went puce with anger. He was the youngest of the captains, and Tavxha’s reproach cut him to the quick.

  “And what should I be ashamed of?” he roared angrily. “You’re in favour of attacking because you know my azabs will be the first in line. They will fall like flies, and your janissaries will walk over their dead bodies to take the castle.”

  Old Tavxha waved his short arm agitatedly.

  Although he was not a resentful man, Kara-Mukbil’s eyes flamed with anger. When he grasped that Tursun Pasha was not going to intervene, he raised the tone of his onslaught on Tavxha.

  “You wouldn’t say that if the order of battle was the reverse. If your janissaries made up the front line, I’m sure you’d think as I do, and not pretend to be indignant.”

  “The rules of war were established by the great Padishah,” Tavxha replied curtly. “It is not for us to doubt them.”

  Kara-Mukbil said nothing.

  If the architect were now to put forward a convincing reason for delaying the assault, the Pasha now thought, he would take the experts’ side.

  “Let us hear the architect!” he said.

  Giaour began to speak, and not a muscle moved in his masklike face. Anyone hearing him for the first time would be flabbergasted. He didn’t have a speech defect or a stammer, but the words he uttered in his toneless voice issued from his lips like a string of icy, shiny beads.

  “Cannon hit main junction point second tower and also right wall middle main door left wall first tower …”

  He was pointing out the weaknesses in the citadel’s construction, which were invisible to the untutored eye but which his studies had taught him to see as through a pane of glass. As he amputated the suffixes and prefixes from some of his words, moreover, his speech reminded the soldiers present, who had experience of great carnage, of the remains of mutilated bodies.

  The architect came to the end of his contribution as abruptly as if he had cut it off with a knife. What emerged from the long string of his lifeless words was a single point: he did not support the view of his usual allies. Tursun Pasha was barely able to stifle a sigh. Everything was going the wrong way in his council of war. As he listened to the sanxhakbeys, who stuck to the “hard” line, as was to be expected, since they knew it was the only way of protecting themselves from any consequential mistake, the Pasha watched the Alaybey’s face out of the corner of his eye. Clearly, even now that a divergence of views was manifest, the Alaybey had no intention of swaying the debate to one side or the other. The thought that this attitude might have been laid down for him by secret orders from above froze Tursun Pasha’s heart. Yes, they must have suggested what attitude he should adopt, even if it hadn’t been said in so many words: if there’s a quarrel, don’t take sides.

  Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand of his fighters’ lives hung on the Alaybey’s lips. May they also lie on your conscience! Tursun Pasha thought, and forthwith he uttered his decision.

  “Tomorrow before first light the cannon will launch a barrage of fire at the fortress walls. We will storm the citadel in the afternoon, as soon as the heat of the day begins to slacken. Troops are to be forewarned tonight. Let the drums sound throughout the camp, let the shehs address the soldiers and may the spirit of battle be enhanced by all the usual means. Troops will be sent to rest at midnight.”

  He paused for a moment, and then concluded.

  “I have spoken.”

  Everyone stood up, bowed to their commander, and filed out of the tent. The astrologer, who thought he was the principal cause of the dispute that had arisen, made himself scarce. He knew that even when they suffer temporary defeat the mighty are always more powerful than their subordinates, and it seemed to him more prudent to keep out of sight than to flaunt his pride in the fact that his own prediction had prevailed.

  Night had fallen.

  The astrologer wandered around the camp for quite a while without encountering any familiar figure. It was a huge camp, and there was little likelihood he would bump into anyone he knew just by chance. In addition, so many paths had been hastily laid out in identical fashion as to make finding the tent of a friend, even one you had been to before, quite a challenge. All the same he was bursting to meet someone to whom he could tell “the latest news from the pavilion”. But as if on purpose, nobody came into sight. All the tents were the same. Only officers’ tents were distinguished by little pennants stitched over the door indicating their inhabitants’ rank. Even the faces that he made out by the light of torches lit inside the tents, whenever he put his head through the flap, seemed interchangeable.

  He heard someone calling him. It was the poet Sadedin, who was coming towards him. The astrologer was delighted.

  “Where are you going?” Sadedin asked.

  “I was walking around in the hope of finding a friend. Where have you all been hiding?”

  As the poet opened his mouth to reply the astrologer smelled a heavy odour of raki.

  “So, have you heard?” Sadedin asked. “The attack is for tomorrow! At last! Thank goodness!”

  The astrologer was dumbfounded.

  “But how do you know?”

  “Everyone knows. Are you out of the loop?”

  “Me?” the astrologer said with a touch of pique. “I was the first to know! I was in the Pasha’s tent when the decision was made. In fact, I actually knew it beforehand … from the stars!”

  “Mm …” Sadedin replied.

  “In the pavilion, things almost got out of hand …”

  “I’ve got a gourd,” the poet interrupted. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

  Coming from anyone else, such familiarity would have offended the astrologer. But he felt quite disarmed by Sadedin.

  “People will see us.”

  “So what? It’s party night.”

  The astrologer grabbed the gourd from the poet’s hand, turned around so his face would not be seen by passers-by, and took a few swigs.

  Somewhere in the distance a drum sounded. Then another.

  “They’ve started the drumming. The news has got around,” the astrologer observed.

  “I told you so.”

  Now drumming could be heard in every quarter. Soldiers came out of their tents in groups. Great fires were being lit all over the camp.

  “It’s going to be a wild night!” the poet said.

  They crossed the centre of the camp, then turned right at the point where the janissaries had laid out their tents. One of them walked past, stopped, turned around to follow them for a few paces, and then grabbed the poet by his sleeve.

  The poet turned round, thinking he had been accosted by one of his friends, but before he could get over his surprise, the janissary hissed:

  “Brother, spare me a drink, you’ve still got a drop left in the bottom.”

  The poet arched his eyebrows.

  “How do you know I’ve got raki on me?”

  “The smell of your breath, brother,” the janissary replied. “But don’t be afraid, a janissary never rats on anyone.”

  “You’re an odd kind of janissary!” the poet exclaimed, and put his hand inside his tunic.

  “Wait. Don’t get it out until we can’t be seen.”

  “What’s your name?” the poet asked.

  “Tuz Okçan!”

  “That’s a fine name, a real soldier
’s name!”

  Once he had made sure no one could see them, the poet handed his gourd to the stranger.

  Sadedin took a swig too, and passed it on to the astrologer. Then the three of them walked on through the growing tumult.

  The moon appeared in a cleft between the mountains, like the yellowish face of a wild beast keeping watch on what was going on down on the valley floor. It spilled its cold light over thousands of white tents.

  “Mevla Çelebi!” the poet suddenly cried out.

  He had seen the chronicler from afar.

  “Are you out for a walk?” the latter asked.

  “Yes, we’re having a stroll,” Sadedin said. “May I introduce Tuz Okçan, a valiant young janissary whose acquaintance we have just made.” Then he turned towards the soldier. “Mevla Çelebi, a scholar and historian by trade. As for me, I’m called Sadedin, I’m a poet, and my friend here is the army’s astrologer. That’s to say, he gets the stars to talk to him.”

  The janissary was aghast at finding himself in the company of such important people.

  “Where did you find the raki?” Çelebi enquired.

  “I’ve got my own,” Sadedin said, putting his hand inside his tunic. “Here you are, have some yourself.”

  “Wait a moment,” the chronicler said. “Let’s get behind a corner.”

  “Well, I prefer to drink as I walk,” Sadedin said.

  Çelebi turned to the astrologer and asked, “Were you at the war council meeting?”

  Delighted to be able to show off his inside information, the astrologer started whispering. The poet and the janissary walked on a little ahead of the pair.

  Almost the entire plain was now bathed in moonlight. It shone down on turbaned hoxhas scuttling in all directions with Korans in their hands. The dervishes were getting ready for their dance.

  The drums went on beating.

  “Haven’t you finished your tittle-tattle yet?” the poet asked as he turned round to face his two companions. “So, what do you say? Time for a drink?”

  “Does he really talk to the stars?” the janissary asked with awe, nodding towards the astrologer.

  “So it seems,” Sadedin replied.

  The janissary looked out of the corner of his eye at the three stars engraved on the brass plate the astrologer wore around his neck.

  A little further on they stepped out of the main path once again and handed round the gourd. The raki made them merrier. The poet had his arm around the janissary’s shoulder and was calling him “my brother soldier” now. At the bonfire sites hoxhas were reciting suras from the Koran. Soldiers sat in an arc around them and listened. Further on, there were shehs and old soldiers making heated speeches in voices so impassioned that they almost drowned out the sound of the drums.

  “Look at their flag at the top of the main tower,” one of the shehs yelled, pointing to the fortress. “Look at it! You can almost see it shaking with fear!”

  The soldiers turned their heads in the direction suggested. Although the emblem was very far away and looked quite pale in the moonlight, they really did think they could see it quivering. They had seen so many pennants waving in the wind these last weeks and months that they often saw flags in their dreams.

  “Our flags tremble too,” someone said in the ill-lit night.

  The sheh glanced ferociously towards where the voice had come from.

  “Indeed they do!” he thundered. “Our flags tremble with impatience as they wait for the start of combat, just as lions’ manes quiver before the attack!”

  They went on their way and the poet carried on muttering between his teeth. Apparently he was composing a verse. The janissary gaped at him. He’d never seen a poet before, and even less a poet in the process of composition.

  “Have you ever seen any Albanian girls?” Sadedin suddenly asked the janissary.

  “No, but I’ve heard speak about them.”

  “What extraordinary girls they are!” Sadedin said, striking his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I can tell you about them. I’ve seen them.”

  “So what are they like?” Tuz Okçan asked.

  “Ah! I was forgetting you are a janissary. I pity you. The Sultan has granted you many privileges, but what good are they if the pleasure of women is forbidden to you?”

  “That’s true,” Tuz Okçan sighed.

  “Poor lad!” the poet sighed in turn.

  “So what are they like?” the janissary asked once again.

  The hubbub of the camp had grown ever louder, and now they had to shout to make themselves heard.

  “Well, now,” said Sadedin. “They are … They are … How can I describe them, brother? They are like clouds, and like milk … And on the surface of the milk you can see the clear black outline of a swallows’ nest … When I found myself over one, I thought I would go mad … My hands trembled as I sought out the nest … And in that state, I came beforehand … I didn’t manage anything. Janissary, you know what it means to drop your load before you’ve got to the door!”

  “Will you buy one for yourself when we’ve taken the citadel?” the janissary asked.

  “Sure I will. At any price. I’ve got money put aside.” (He put his hand into his tunic.) “All I ever earned from my poems.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  The poet reached for his gourd and put it to his lips.

  “That’s enough,” the astrologer remonstrated. “You can’t walk straight as it is.”

  Sadedin stuffed the gourd inside his tunic.

  “It’s going to be quite a night when we take the citadel! A real riot! Just wait to see the orgies we’ll have! When the men have taken their pleasure they’ll swap their captives. They’ll keep them for an hour, then sell them on to buy others. The girls will go from tent to tent. There’ll be brawls. Maybe even murders! Oh, we won’t be short of fun!”

  The janissary listened glumly.

  They walked on further, along a path lined with azabs stretched out on the ground, in the even darker shadows thrown by the tents.

  “These azabs are boring,” Sadedin said. “I can guess what they’re talking about as if I could hear them loud and clear.”

  “How do you know? I wouldn’t have thought anybody could guess what goes through the mind of an azab.”

  “But I do know,” Sadedin replied. “They dream of being granted a plot of land or a vineyard in the lands they conquer, then spending the rest of their days behind the plough.”

  “Everyone is free to dream,” the astrologer said.

  The poet was tempted to respond, but decided instead to have another swig of raki. He carried on mumbling as he made up his verses.

  The crowds were getting thicker. Drums were being sounded in every quarter. Dervishes whirled and fell, prayed and screamed without respite.

  “We shall teach the Sacred Koran to these accursed rebels,” a sheh was proclaiming. “On their lands which are as humped as a demon’s back, we shall raise minarets blessed by Allah! At dusk, from these high towers, the voices of our muezzins will fall on their untutored heads and take hold of their minds like hashish. We shall ensure that these infidels learn to bow towards Mecca five times a day. We shall wrap their sick and troubled skulls in the balmy turban of Islam.”

  “What a fine speaker he is,” the astrologer commented.

  “I want to recite a poem as well!” Sadedin declared, in a burst of passion. “I’ve got it in my head.”

  He began to mumble aloud a string of incomprehensible words:

  Composing a poem would cause Okçan more pain Than fighting his way through the Balkan campaign

  It was hard to make any headway through the tightly packed crowds. Ragged dervishes belonging to different sects could be spotted all over the place. The Rufais had started their dance. Soldiers jostled to get a better view of them jumping up and down to the beat of the drum. It was a sinister, monotonous dance. They would squat on their heels, then rise up with a fast-paced, obsessive swaying movement, utteri
ng loud screams that made your blood run cold. In a trance, their faces were pale and their eyes half-closed.

  “It’s quite a new dance,” Sadedin explained to the janissary. “It’s spreading all over. Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I do rather like it,” the janissary replied. “It gets you all excited.”

  The poet took another mouthful of raki and resumed his mumbling.

  They next came across a group of collectors squabbling over their business as if they were at a souk. In recent years collectors had started devoting themselves to a whole variety of objects, and, according to their speciality, they hunted for teeth, fingers, locks of hair, ears, nails and eyelashes. After a battle, they would throw themselves on the corpses of slain enemies and fill whole sacks with the items they were after and then cart them off to the cities to sell. The most sought-after objects were human ears.

  They usually spent the night before a battle talking business, doing sums, and trying to forecast rising and falling prices and trends in the tastes of wealthy collectors. As they were obliged to spend long periods away from their markets in the cities, they were not always up to date on the latest fashions.

  “Do you feel like a drink?” Sadedin asked the janissary.

  Tuz Okçan said nothing, but took the gourd the poet held out to him, and had several swigs. All around them was turmoil, and no one noticed what they were doing.

  “Where are we going?” the chronicler asked.

  “Where our feet take us,” the poet answered. “Wherever.”

  “Hand me the gourd.”

  The poet took it out of his tunic once more. It was almost empty now.

  “You’ve got a very lovely name,” he said to the janissary, moving closer to him to speak into his ear. “I’m jealous of it! Tuz Okçan! I’m fed up with my name. Everybody calls me Nightingale Sadedin, but I …”

  The janissary was dumbfounded.

  “When this war is over, I’m going to change my name. Do you know what I would like to be called? Sarperkan Tol-Keleç Olgunsoy! Do you like it?”