The Janissary Tree

[ 117 ]

The Kara Davut was always busy on a Friday night. The shopkeepers and cafe owners set out lanterns above their doorways and after mosque families paraded up and down the street, stopping for a sherbet or an ice, queuing for hot street food and thronging the coffee shops. Children chased each other in and out of the crowds, shouting and laughing, only occasionally called to order by their indulgent parents. Young men gathered round cafe tables, those who could afford it sitting with a coffee, the others at their elbows chatting and trying to catch a glimpse of the local girls, decorously swathed in chador and yashmak, who walked accompanied by their parents, but all the time signalling with their gait and the movement of their heads and hands.

Yashim didn’t think he was imagining that the atmosphere tonight was different. The street was as full as ever, even more crowded than usual; but the children seemed quieter, as if they were playing on a shorter rein, and the knots of youths in the cafes seemed larger and more subdued than usual.

This impression of subdued expectation didn’t evaporate as Yashim hurried towards the palace. He had failed to find a chair, and guessed that the chair-men would contribute to the confusion approaching the city: if not ex-Janissaries, they were still a rough crew, the sort of men who went to swell a mob or serve the rabble if they scented an opportunity.

As he half-walked, half-jogged through the streets and alleys, he was surprised to meet no soldiers on the way, none of the little platoons the seraskier had forecast at every street corner. How soon would they secure the city?

He had an answer of a kind as he swept out of the maze of streets behind Aya Sofia and onto the open ground that lay between the mosque and the walls of the seraglio. A pair of uniformed guardsmen ran towards him, shouting: behind them he could see that the whole space was occupied by soldiers, some on horseback, several platoons in what looked like a drill formation, and others simply sitting quietly on the ground with their legs crossed, waiting for instructions. Beyond them he thought he could make out the silhouettes of mounted cannon and mortars.

This has the makings of a complete disaster, he thought fiercely—an opinion confirmed on the spot, as the two soldiers ran up to block his way.

“The way is closed! You must go back!”

They were holding their guns across their chests.

“I have urgent business at the palace,” Yashim snapped. “Let me through.”

“Sorry, mate. These are our orders. No one is to come through here.”

“The seraskier. Where is he?”

The nearest soldier looked uneasy.

“Couldn’t say. He’ll be busy anyways.”

The second soldier frowned.

“Who are you?”

Yashim saw his chance. He jabbed a finger.

“No. Who are you} I want your rank, and your number.” He didn’t know much about military organisation, but he hoped he sounded better than he felt. “The seraskier is going to be very unhappy if he gets to hear about this.”

The soldiers glanced at one another.

“Well, I don’t know,” one of them muttered.

“You know who I am,” Yashim asserted. He doubted that, very much, but there was an angry edge to his voice which wasn’t faked. “Yashim Togalu. The seraskier’s senior intelligence officer. My mission is urgent.”

The men shuffled their feet.

“Either you take me to the Imperial Gate right now, or I will speak to your commanding officer.”

One of the soldiers glanced round. The Imperial Gate loomed black and solid in the darkness only a hundred yards away. The corps commander—he might be anywhere.

“Go on, then,” said the soldier quickly, with a jerk of his head. Yashim walked past them.

After he’d gone, one of the men let out a sigh of relief. “At least we didn’t give our names,” he remarked.