The Janissary Tree

[ 109 ]

The sultan kept them waiting for an hour, and when he met them it was not in the private apartments, as Yashim had expected, but in the throne room, a room that Yashim had seen only once fifteen years before.

He had not seen the sultan, either, for several years. Mahmut’s beard, which had been jet black, was red with henna, and the keen dark eyes had turned watery, sunk beneath folds of fat. His mouth seemed to have drooped into a pout of permanent disappointment as if, having tasted everything that money could buy in the world, he had found it all to be sour. He waved them in with a chubby hand, larded with rings, but made no effort to rise from the throne.

The room itself was as Yashim remembered it, a jewel box of the coolest blues, tiled from the floor to the apex of the dome in exquisite Iznikware, a frozen dream of a garden that twined and dripped and hung festooned around the walls.

Yashim and the seraskier entered stooping at the waist, and after they had advanced five paces they prostrated themselves on the ground.

“Get up, get up,” snapped the sultan testily. “About time,” he added, pointing at Yashim.

The seraskier frowned. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he began. “A situation has arisen in the city which we believe—Yashim effendi, and myself—to be of the gravest potential consequence to the well-being and security of the people.”

“What are you talking about? Yashim?”

Yashim bowed, and started to explain. He spoke of the Edict, and the murder of the cadets. He described a prophecy uttered centuries ago by the founder of the Karagozi order of dervishes—and caught the sultan’s warning frown.

“Be careful, lala. Be very careful of the words you choose. There are some things one cannot speak about.”

Yashim eyed him levelly. “Then I don’t think it will be necessary, sultan.”

There was a silence.

“No,” Mahmut replied. “I have understood. Both of you, approach the throne. We don’t want to shout.”

Yashim hesitated. The sultan’s words had reminded him of the last lines in the verse: The silent few become one with the Core. Approach. What could it mean? He took a step closer to the sultan. The seraskier stood stiffly beside him.

“What do you say, seraskier?”

“There may be upwards of fifty thousand men preparing to take to the streets.”

“And Istanbul could be burned to the ground, is that it? I see. Well, we must do something about that. What do you have in mind?”

“I believe, sire, you must let the New Guards occupy the city temporarily,” Yashim explained. “The seraskier is reluctant, but I can’t see a better way of guaranteeing public safety.”

The sultan frowned and tugged his beard. “Seraskier, you know the temper of your men. Are they ready to take such a step?”

“Their discipline is good, sultan. And they have several commanders who are level-headed and decisive. With your permission, they could take up positions overnight. Their presence alone might overawe the conspirators.”

Yashim noticed that the seraskier soundend less hesitant now.

“All the same,” the sultan observed, “it could become a battle, in the streets.”

“There is that risk. In those circumstances we would simply have to do our best. Identify the ringleaders, limit the damage. Above all, sultan, protect the palace.”

“Hmm. As it happens, seraskier, I hadn’t been planning to remain in the city.”

“With respect, sultan. Your safety can be guaranteed, and I think that your presence will help to reassure the people.”

The sultan answered with a sigh.

“I am not afraid, seraskier.” He rubbed his hands across his face. “Get the men ready. I will consult with my viziers. You can expect an order within the next few hours.”

He turned to Yashim.

“As for you, it is high time you made progress in our enquiry. Be so good as to report to my apartments.”

He dismissed them with a gesture. Both men bowed deeply and walked backward to the door. As they closed on the audience room, Yashim saw that the sultan was sitting on his throne, his fist bunched against his cheek, watching them.