The Architect's Apprentice Part 7

On the pretext of fetching food for the elephant, Jahan rambled around the camp with a bucket in his hand. He came across dervishes whirling in circles within circles, their right hands open towards the sky, their left hands turned towards the earth, receiving and giving, dead to everyone and yet perhaps more alive than many. He watched pious Muslims praying on tiny rugs, a faint mark on their foreheads from all their kneeling. He met an armourer who kept a scorpion in a box in his sash, which, he said, would sting him should he fall captive to the idolaters. He overheard Janissaries cursing under their breath, a row between mates that would be forgotten tomorrow morning. He saw prost.i.tutes who, even though they had been forbidden to work the day before the battle, prowled among the tents. Tonight of all nights was the most lucrative, since many a man would need their comfort.

Ahead of him were three wh.o.r.es, their faces half hidden under their capes. Curious, as always, Jahan began to follow them. One woman young, slender and dressed as a Jewess stopped and glanced back.

'Brave soldier,' she said silkily, 'you couldn't sleep?'

'I'm not a soldier,' said Jahan.

'But you are brave, I am sure.'

Jahan shrugged, not knowing how to respond.

Her smile grew broader. 'Let me look at you.'

At her touch Jahan flinched. She put her arm through his, clutching his hand with so tight a grip that he could not pull away. Her fingers were soft; her body smelled of wood-smoke and damp gra.s.s. Trying to hide the shudder that had seized him, Jahan pulled himself free.

'Don't go,' she pleaded like a heartbroken lover.

The request was so unexpected and so innocent, he was nonplussed. When he began to walk, she trotted behind him, the swish of her skirts reminding him of the sound of pigeons ruffling their feathers under the eaves. Staring ahead, as if the night held a riddle he had to solve, Jahan continued onwards. It was getting late, and moving around the camp with a wh.o.r.e on his heels was dangerous. Reluctantly, he headed to his tent.

There were three stable-grooms inside. 'Hey, Indian lad, what did you bring us?' one of them asked. 'A gazelle, eh?'

'She came on her own,' Jahan said scathingly.

For a moment they were silent, considering what to do. The eldest groom, who had a fine pair of boots with which to trade, took the wh.o.r.e to his bed.

Jahan, feigning indifference, retreated to a corner and unrolled his pallet. Sleep would not come. His face set into a grimace as he listened to the grunts, the panting. When he thought it was finally over, he propped up on one elbow and glanced around. By a candle's weak glow he saw them, he rocking on top of her, she lying limp and listless, her eyes wide open and fixed on the shadow of something that wasn't there. She turned to one side. Their gazes locked. In her eyes he glimpsed her universe; in her loneliness he recognized his own. He felt ill, dizzy, the ground tilting beneath his weight. At that moment Jahan discovered against his better judgement a wild power smouldering in his heart. There was a dark side to his nature, a secret cellar under the house of his soul that he had not yet visited but always sensed existed.

He jumped to his feet, stomping towards the groom, who didn't notice him until it was too late. He shoved him off her and hit him hard, a punch that sent the man tumbling to the floor, though in truth it hurt Jahan's hand more than the man's chin. The groom, less furious than perplexed, blinked back up at the boy. His lips twisted in disdainful recognition of what had happened until he emitted a chuckle. The other grooms joined in. Jahan looked at the wh.o.r.e and saw that she, too, was laughing at him.

Trembling, he slipped outside the tent, in need of seeing Chota, who was always sweet-tempered and tender-hearted, and, unlike human beings, knew no arrogance or malice.

As usual the elephant was dozing on his feet. Every day he slept no more than a few hours. While Jahan changed his water and checked his food, his mind was awash with images of the wh.o.r.e her touching him, her following him, her sprawled on a dirty mattress, half naked. Yet, when he lay down on a pile of straw and closed his eyes, it was Mihrimah who appeared, once again, leaning towards him in a kiss. He opened his eyes in panic, embarra.s.sed for daring to think of her in that way a woman of n.o.ble birth, not like that ruined harlot from nowhere. Still, try as he might, he could neither banish the harlot nor stop dreaming of the Princess.

Next morning at dawn he woke with the sound of prayer. The grooms were up and ready. Jahan searched them for a trace of guilt or a sign of fatigue. Nothing. It was as if the night before had never happened.

Slow and tedious the prelude to war had been; the battle itself was swift or so it felt to Jahan. He heard a rumbling echo, first far off, then too close. The enemy was no longer an obscure shadow: it had a face a thousand faces, in fact, peering from under their helmets. Atop his elephant Jahan raked his gaze across the battlefield. In the distance, where the two armies were colliding, the colours melted into a cascade of grey. Sparks of light flashed and died, flashed and died, as blades struck against each other. Everywhere he turned he saw metal and flesh: spears, swords and knives; bodies hurling across the plain, staggering, falling.

The sound was deafening. The clatter of iron-shod hooves, the clash of steel, the thwack of catapults; the yelling, the choking, the constant repet.i.tion of Allah, Allah. They fought for the Sultan. They fought for the Almighty. But also for every wrong they had suffered since they were boys, the whips and sticks and blows they had endured. Blood soaked into blood on patches of earth that turned so dark as to be black. Their cheeks puffing, their mouths foaming, the horses galloped, their riders standing in the saddles. Clouds of smoke billowed far and wide. Though it was mid-afternoon, the light was already receding, the sky a mantle of smoke.

Bewildered, fl.u.s.tered, Chota clumped left and right, uneasy under the huge plate armour, which he had still not got used to. His tusks had been honed into sharp blades. Jahan tried talking to him but his words were swallowed up by the clamour. In the periphery of his vision he caught a movement. A hefty Frank, crossbow over his shoulder, lurched forward upon a Janissary, who, having tripped over and dropped his javelin, lay on the ground, momentarily confused. The Janissary ducked the first lunge of the sword, but the next one pierced his shoulder. In an instant Jahan steered Chota in their direction. The elephant barged into the Frank and lifted him up in the air, with his tusk jammed into his abdomen.

'That's enough, Chota,' Jahan yelled. 'Let go!'

The elephant obeyed, for a fleeting moment, dropping the screaming soldier. But instantly he hauled him up again, thrusting his tusk into his chest. Blood spurted from the man's mouth, a look of disbelief in his eyes at meeting his end at the hands of an animal. Jahan watched terrified, only now realizing he had not been commanding Chota; Chota had been commanding him.

After that, Jahan felt more and more like a spectator. Chota propelled himself towards enemy lines, picking, hoisting and dropping off soldiers; he crushed two Franks under his weight. With one soldier he took longer, like a cat with a mouse, as if he wished him to suffer longer. He attacked a Janissary, too, not making any distinction between friend and foe. It was sheer luck that saved the man from being trampled.

Yes, the battle happened quickly, though afterwards Jahan would relive it in his head a thousand times. The deaths he had witnessed but did not see, the cries he had caught but did not hear, would rush back to him. Even decades later, as an old man, Jahan would find himself remembering that afternoon: a blood-stained shield in the mud, a burning arrow with lumps of flesh attached, a horse split open, and, somewhere, behind the veil of time, always, always, the face of the prost.i.tute, laughing at him.

Further off, amid the sea of flames, he saw a soldier tottering, his face a carved mask, his midriff gored with a spear. Jahan recognized the foot-soldier whom he had befriended on the way.

'Halt, Chota!' he shouted. 'Put me down.'

Both orders the elephant disobeyed. Without thinking Jahan threw himself off the animal's back, dropping heavily on his side. He reached the foot-soldier, who, by now, had fallen down on to his knees. His fingers were entwined, as if grabbing an invisible rope. Blood gurgled out from his nose, a few drops spilling on the talisman around his neck. Jahan took off his mahout jacket and pressed it on the wound, from which the head of the spear poked out. He sat beside him, holding his hand between his palms, the man's pulse a fading drum.

The foot-soldier broke into a smile: it was impossible to say whether this was because he was relieved to see a familiar face or because he thought Jahan was someone else. His teeth chattering, he stammered something incomprehensible. Bending over, Jahan listened, his breath warm against the man's cheek.

'The light ... did you ... see?'

Jahan gave a tight nod. 'I have. It's beautiful.'

A shadow of solace flitted across the foot-soldier's face. His body grew heavy, his mouth sagged, his eyes remained open as though fixed on a cloud that had already pa.s.sed.

Later on, when everything was over and the Ottoman Army had triumphed, Jahan could not bring himself to join the revelry. Trudging wearily, he drifted away from the camp into the heart of the battleground. It was a reckless thing to do. He had no weapon on him other than a dagger he wasn't sure he could use. Still, he lumbered across the valley shrouded in mist, pushing on through the field strewn with bodies that only a few hours before had been sons, husbands or brothers. He had the feeling that this place with its shadows and smoke was the end of the known earth, and that if he kept walking he would fall off the edge. He knew Chota would be starving, waiting for him to bring food and water. But the last thing he wanted was to see the elephant.

A few times he stepped on a soft mound here and there, and found out, to his horror, that it was a dead man's thigh or a severed hand. The stench was fierce. The lingering sounds were eerie: the crackle of burning wood, the hoofbeats of riderless horses and, from corners he could not make out, the moans of soldiers still alive.

The pain, when it finally caught him, was like nothing he had experienced before. He checked himself over, unable to find anything. It was in his head, in his limbs. He couldn't tell where it ached, for the pain travelled, now eating at his bones, now clenching his insides. Hunched up, he vomited.

Drawn by a mad instinct, he picked his way through the field, his feet sore, his legs heavy like timber, his forehead beaded with sweat, until he found an old gnarled tree to sit by. A troop of Ottoman miners was excavating a huge pit in the distance. When they were done, they would separate out the dead, and bury their own. What would happen to the corpses of the Franks, he didn't know. So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he did not hear anyone approaching.

'Indian lad,' came a voice from behind. 'What are you doing here?'

Gasping, Jahan turned around. 'Master Sinan!'

'You should not be here, son.'

It didn't occur to the boy that neither should Sinan. He said, apologetically, 'Don't want to go back.'

The man inspected the boy's swollen eyes, his marred face. Slowly, he sat down next to him. The sun was setting, a crimson tinge on the horizon. A flock of storks flew over, heading towards warmer lands. Jahan started to cry.

Taking a blade out of his sash, Sinan chipped a chunk from a log nearby. As he carved, he began talking about Arnas, the village where he had been born the hedged crop fields, the Greek and Armenian churches with no bells, and the icy winds that hummed like sad songs; the yoghurt soup his mother made and served cold in the summer, hot in the winter; the carpentry his father had taught him, where even the tiniest piece of wood was breathing and alive. Becoming a Janissary and converting to Islam when he was twenty-one, he had joined the Hearth of Haci Bektash, named for the dervish patron of the Janissary corps, and taken part in war after war: Rhodes, Belgrade, Iran, Corfu, Baghdad and, the bloodiest of them all, Mohacs. He had seen the bravest turn tail, the timid bloom into lionhearts.

'My elephant ...' said Jahan when he could find his voice. 'Olev and I taught him how to kill. Now he has killed. Many.'

Sinan stopped carving. 'Don't be upset at the animal. Don't blame yourself.'

The boy shivered, suddenly cold. 'When we made that bridge, I felt useful, effendi ... I wish we had stayed there.'

'When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.'

'Who said this?'

'A poet, a wise man.' Sinan placed his hand on the boy's forehead. It was hot. 'Tell me, would you like to build more?'

'Yes, I'd like that very much,' Jahan replied.

When darkness descended, they headed back to the camp. Halfway there they came across a saddled horse trotting around on its own, its rider gone. Sinan made Jahan sit on the horse, and led it by the reins back to camp. He took Jahan to his tent and told the grooms to take care of the elephant while the boy got some rest.

Burning with fever, Jahan fell into a painful slumber as soon as he lay down. Sinan stayed beside him, putting vinegar-soaked cloths on his face and arms, and continuing with his carving. At dawn, when Jahan's temperature dropped, Sinan opened the boy's clenched fist, placed a gift upon his palm and left. The next morning, when the boy woke up, drenched in sweat but otherwise fine, he found himself holding a wooden elephant. On its face, instead of sharp, lethal tusks, it had two flowers.

The city was awaiting its army. Since sunrise people had been pouring out, filling the streets and squares like thick, gooey shurub.* Climbing up on trees, perching on roofs, squeezing into every smidgen of s.p.a.ce alongside the road from Adrianople Gate to the palace, thousands were eager to welcome the victors. Istanbul, with its serpentine alleys, underground pa.s.sages and closed bazaars, had donned her best gown and was, for once, all smiles.

'The soldiers're comin'!' exclaimed an urchin who had planted himself above a fountain. His words, ripples on the surface of a pond, spread out, reaching the sh.o.r.es of the crowd and from there pushing back towards the centre altered along the way. By the time the same child heard the echo of his exclamation, it sounded rather different: 'The Sultan's givin' out coins!'

Townsmen with joy and pride in their hearts, merchants with pouches sewn into their hems, liver vendors with strips of meat hanging from poles and stray cats on their heels, Sufis with the ninety-nine names of G.o.d on their tongues, scribes with ink stains on their fingers, beggars with bowls dangling from their necks, pickpockets with hands as nimble as squirrels, travellers from Frangistan with a startled look and Venetian spies with honeyed words and astute smiles everyone inched closer, keen to see.

In a little while, the Sultan's elite guards pa.s.sed under an arched gateway in full regalia, leading the cavalcade down the acacia-lined thoroughfare, their horses at a ceremonial trot. Following them, mounted on a purebred Arabian stallion, clad in an azure kaftan and a turban so high as to confuse a pa.s.sing stork on the lookout for a nest, was Suleiman the Magnificent. A collective gasp rose from the audience and mingled with prayers and adulations. Rose petals danced in the air, sprinkled from a hundred windows and balconies.

Behind rows and rows of armour-clad soldiers, some marching, some riding, some pulling their horses by the reins, came the elephant and the mahout. Initially Jahan had been ordered to sit on the animal's neck and leave the howdah to the Janissary agha. After a few steps in this way, however, the man had asked to be brought down, his face ashen. Accustomed as he was to tempestuousness of all kinds, the elephant's sway proved too much for the Ottoman n.o.bleman. Hence Jahan ensconced himself inside the howdah in the manner of an exiled prince returning home after years abroad. The feeling was strangely sweet. For the first time in days he forgot about the battleground and the stench of death that still wafted from his skin.

Soon it became apparent that the white elephant would be the centre of attention. No one, other than the Sultan, received so much applause and admiration. People everywhere were pointing at Chota, waving, laughing, clapping. A clothier flung strings of ribbons; a Gypsy la.s.s sent a kiss, giggling; a guttersnipe fell down from the branch on which he had climbed, trying to touch the beast's tusks. As Chota sped along, swinging his tail left and right, buoyed by the warm reception, Jahan glided on in a daze of his own. Never had he felt so important, wrapped in the delicious fancy that his presence in this city, if not in this world, filled a unique void. With his cheeks flushed in gratification, he waved back at the spectators.

In the menagerie, Chota was greeted like a hero. It was decided that he would not be sent to the other menageries in the city. He would stay here in the seraglio. His daily ration was doubled and he was allowed to take a bath, every week, in the lily-covered pond at the far end of the courtyard a privilege that no other wild animal was given. None of the others were permitted to leave the menagerie.

Gradually Jahan forgave the elephant for the way he had behaved on the battleground. He covered his knife-like tusks with two silken b.a.l.l.s, and made a new mantle for him with his own hands. He garnished the trims with silver bells and sewed on blue beads against the evil eye. Languid and placid sunsets slipped by. Blissful days these were though, as too often happens with blissful days, they would be appreciated only when they were no more.

Several days later, while Jahan was cleaning out the barn, Olev the lion-tamer appeared by his side. He said, 'Someone sent you a message.'

'Who?' Jahan asked, a crack in his voice.

'Haven't seen the chap myself. He gave it to a guard so that he'd pa.s.s it to you, so I am told.'

Thus saying Olev produced a folded piece of vellum.

'I am illiterate,' said Jahan quickly, as if hoping this would shield him from the contents of the letter. Nor was it exactly true. With the help of Taras the Siberian he had been studying the alphabet. Having discovered the key to the mystery of letters, he had started to wade through books, though handwriting he still found difficult.

'There's nothing to read. I've checked it,' said Olev.

Jahan took the vellum and opened it. There on the smooth surface of the skin was a picture. An elephant, quite badly drawn, but an elephant nonetheless, and on his back a boy with large ears. The animal carried a smile on its shapeless face and looked happy, while the boy had a spear through his heart. Three drops trickled from the end of the spear. Only these had a colour, a deep dark red, for they were made with blood.

'I don't know what this means,' said Jahan, his jaw set tightly, and pushed the letter away.

'Fine,' said Olev after a brief lull. 'In that case we shall destroy it and not mention it to anyone. But whoever this person is, you better start thinking about what you're going to do if he shows up. The walls of the palace are high but not high enough to protect you from evil.'

The second time the Sultana visited the menagerie there was something in her att.i.tude towards the elephant that hadn't been there before: a speck of approval, nigh on appreciation. Again her skirts swished by; again Jahan threw himself on the ground; again her entourage waited to one side, so silent they might have ceased to exist. And once again Mihrimah watched it all with a suppressed smile.

'They say your elephant was brave,' Hurrem remarked without so much as glancing in the mahout's direction.

'Yes, your Highness. Chota fought well,' said Jahan. He did not tell her how the animal had gored soldiers, and how he still felt guilty about having taught him to do so.

'Hmm, but not you, I heard. Is it true you were scared and ran away and came back shivering with fear?'

Jahan's face turned ashen. Who could have whispered such things behind his back? Reading his mind in one swift glance, Hurrem said, 'Birds ... Pigeons bring me news from everywhere.'

Try as he might to remain indifferent, Jahan believed what she said. In his mind's eye he saw the birds of the aviary flying far and high, carrying in their beaks tidbits of gossip for the Sultana.

'I also heard that your elephant was the people's darling. Everybody loved it. They applauded the white beast more than they applauded the Janissary agha.' Hurrem paused, waiting for her words to sink in.

Jahan knew this was true. Even the commanders in the army had not been showered with as much love as Chota had.

Meanwhile, Hurrem went on. 'I have been thinking ... Our sons, the two princes, shall be circ.u.mcised. There'll be a parade. A big one.'

Uneasiness came over Jahan as he wondered where this was going.

'Your Eminent Sultan and I would like to see the elephant perform.'

'But '

Already she had turned on her heels. 'But what, Indian?'

Instead of syllables Jahan produced beads of sweat.

'Beware, there're some people who're not taken with you. They think there is something untrustworthy about you. They say you and the beast should be sent to that ruined church to stay with the other big animals. They are right. But I have faith in you, young man. Don't betray my trust.'

Jahan swallowed. 'I won't, your Highness.'

It was a habit of Hurrem's to threaten and sweet-talk interchangeably, breathing down people's necks to make it clear she could crush them should she have the desire to do so, then tossing a flattering remark or two, leaving them confused, beholden. Jahan, however, had no way of knowing this and would learn of it only in time. She strutted away, her chambermaids scurrying to keep up with her. Once again, two figures stayed behind. Princess Mihrimah and Hesna Khatun.

'My Lady Mother seems to be fond of the white elephant,' Mihrimah said witheringly, like a girl imitating her parent's tone. 'If you entertain the crowd well, Mother will dote on you. If Mother dotes on you, you and your beast will be happy.'

'Chota doesn't know any tricks,' Jahan said in a voice so low he wasn't sure if he actually said it.

'I remember you saying that.' Mihrimah gestured to her nursemaid, who produced a dozen circlets from the inside of her long, loose jacket. 'Here, start with these. Dada and I will come and check how you are getting along.'

That week Jahan spent every afternoon tossing circlets to Chota, all of which the elephant ignored. Circlets would be replaced by hoops, hoops by b.a.l.l.s, and, eventually, b.a.l.l.s by apples. Only the latter worked: Chota cared to catch apples so that he could send them to his stomach.

Even so, Mihrimah and her nursemaid came every day. When Chota learned a new trick, the Princess commended him and rewarded him with sweet treats. When the beast failed, she encouraged him with even sweeter words. Once again, the white elephant had brought the Princess and the mahout together. Yet they were not children any longer. Both had grown fast. And, although they tried not to glance at each other in that way, they could not help but notice the changes in each other's bodies. Meanwhile, Hesna Khatun was the sullen, silent witness of all.

Jahan taught the Princess the things he had learned since he had arrived at the menagerie. He showed her how to tell an oak tree's age by counting the rings inside its trunk, how to preserve a b.u.t.terfly, how resin turned into dazzling amber. He told her how ostriches could run faster than horses or how the stripes on every tiger were unique in the way the fingerprints of humans were. She, too, began to confide in him. Little by little, she told him about her childhood, her brothers and her mother. Being the only daughter amid boys, one of whom was destined for the throne, she had felt lonely, she said. 'They loved me but they never paid enough attention to me. I was different. Because I was different, I was lonely. Can you understand that, Jahan?'

Jahan nodded. That was the one thing he understood well the loneliness that came with being different.

The one person Mihrimah would never talk about was her father. Both the mahout and the Princess were behaving as though the Sultan wasn't there, in the midst of their lives. Yet, deep inside, they both knew that if he were ever to hear of these garden escapades, all h.e.l.l would break loose and Jahan would not only lose his job but in all likelihood be sent to a dungeon, where he might be forgotten till the end of time.

Before the circ.u.mcision celebrations, the plague arrived. First appearing on the outskirts of the city, in the hovels by the port of Scutari, it spread faster than wildfire, jumping from one house to the next, the curse scattered in the wind. Death settled over Istanbul like a fog that wouldn't lift, seeping through every hole and crack. It fluttered about in the sea breeze, frothed in the yeast of bread, brewed in the thick, bitter coffee. Little by little people stopped going about; shrinking from gatherings, they sank into solitude. The splash of oars and the murmurs of oarsmen could not be heard even on the quietest evenings. No one wished to journey from one sh.o.r.e to the other if they didn't have to. Never had Istanbulites been so afraid of standing out in the crowd. Never had they been so afraid of offending G.o.d.

For He had a peevish disposition, the G.o.d of the early days of the plague. People were forever worried about the wrong word escaping from their lips, the wrong hand touching their skin, the wrong smell filling their nostrils. They bolted their doors and darkened their windows to avoid the sunrays that spread the disease. Each quarter became hedged in, each street a citadel no one ventured beyond. They spoke in hushed tones, hunched their shoulders and dressed down, wrapped up in modesty. Coa.r.s.e fabric was subst.i.tuted for fine linen cloth; elaborate headdresses were abandoned. Golden coins thrust into jugs, locked into chests were buried deep. The wives of the wealthy hid their jewellery and slipped into the garments of their handmaids in the hopes of gaining G.o.d's favour. Promises were made to go on pilgrimage to Mecca this year and to feed the poor in Arabia. Istanbul was bartering with G.o.d offering habits, offering sacrificial lambs, offering prayers, losing, losing.

Yumrucuk they were called too pretty a name for the swellings that appeared on the armpits, thighs and necks of the victims. Upon closer inspection, some saw the unmistakable face of Azrael. A sneeze was an ominous sign people flinched when they heard one. That is how it began. The body broke into boils that swiftly grew bigger, darker. Then came the fever, the vomiting.

It was in the wind, they said; the night air, soiled like grime, was infested with miasma. The rooms in which the victims met their end were scrubbed with vinegar, whitewashed with lime, sprinkled with holy water from Mecca, then abandoned. n.o.body wanted to linger in a place with a resentful ghost.

That the rich and mighty were also dying was consolation for some; a sign of hopelessness for others. When a man fell sick, his wives would start quarrelling about who would attend him. Ordinarily, the eldest or the barren, if there was one wife would take over. At times a concubine would be sent for. There were men who had four wives and a dozen concubines but still breathed their last alone.

The corpses were carried on carts pulled by oxen, the screech of wheels pulsating on the cobblestones and a sharp tang following along. The cemeteries on the slopes of hills grew over-full, bloated like the sheep slaughtered, skinned and hung from trees on Eid. The gravediggers made each new pit deeper and wider than the previous one, at times burying bodies by the dozen. They kept it to themselves that most of the dead had been neither washed nor shrouded. Some were laid to rest without so much as a gravestone. Grief was an indulgence only a few could afford. Death had to stop hara.s.sing the living for the dead to be properly mourned. When the plague had gone, only then would kin and kith beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and shed their tears to their heart's content. For now, grief was pickled and preserved, kept next to the salted meat and dried peppers in the cellars, to be partaken of in better times.

Ships were sent back without having offloaded their merchandise; caravans were ordered to change their routes. The malady had sprung from the West, like all evils. Travellers, wherever they might be coming from, were met with suspicion. Runaways, itinerant dervishes, nomads, vagabonds, Gypsies anyone without roots was unwelcome.