The Janissary Tree

[ 4 ]

Two hours later, Yashim had seen just about all that he wanted to see for one morning. For any number of mornings.

Summoning a lantern bearer, the seraskier walked him eastwards through the empty streets, following the city’s spine towards the imperial stables. Outside the Beyazit Mosque torches flickered in the dark; they passed the Burnt Column close to the entrance to the Grand Bazaar, now shuttered and still, holding its breath as it guarded its treasures through the night. Further on, near the Sehzade Mosque above the Roman aqueduct, they ran across the night watch, who let them go when he saw who it was. Eventually they reached the stables. The stables, like the Guard itself, were new. They had been erected close below the ridge, on the southern side, on an area of ground which had been vacant since the suppression of the Janissaries ten years before, when their vast and rambling barracks had succumbed to bombardment and conflagration.

They found the cauldron, just as the seraskier had described.

It stood in a corner of one of the new stables, surrounded by bedding straw and lit by large, globular oil lamps suspended on heavy chains from the tie beam way overhead. The horses, the seraskier explained, had been removed.

“It was the horses’ disturbance that brought the matter to light,” he added. “They do not like the smell of dead men.”

Yashim had not realised when the seraskier described it that the cauldron was so very big. It had three short legs and two metal loops on either side for handles; even so Yashim could barely see over the top. The seraskier brought him a mounting stool, and Yashim climbed it to look inside.

The dead soldier was still in his uniform. He was coiled in a foetal position at the bottom of the pot, just covering the base: his arms, which were tied at the wrist, were drawn up over his head making it impossible to see his face. Yashim stepped down and brushed his hands automatically, though the rim of the pot was perfectly clean.

“Do you know who he is?”

The seraskier nodded. “Osman Berek. I took his pocket book. You see…”

He hesitated.

“Well?”

“I am sorry to say, the body has no face.”

Yashim felt a chill of disgust.

“No face?”

“I…I climbed in. I turned him just a little. I thought I would recognise him, but—that’s all. His face has been hacked off. From below the chin to above the eyebrows. It was done, I think, at a single blow.”

Yashim wondered what force was needed to sever a man’s face from his body at a blow. He turned around. “The cauldron is always here? It seems an odd place for it.”

“No, no, the cauldron came with the body.”

Yashim stared.

“Please, effendi. Too many surprises. Unless you have more?”

The seraskier considered. “No. The cauldron simply appeared overnight.”

“And nobody heard or saw anything?”

“The grooms heard nothing. They were asleep in the lofts.”

“The doors are barred?”

“Not usually. In the event of a fire…”

“Quite.” According to an old saying, Istanbul suffered three evils—plague, fire, and Greek interpreters. There were so many old wooden buildings in the city, too closely packed: it only took a careless spark to reduce whole sections of the city to ashes. The unlamented Janissaries had been the city’s firemen, too: it was typical of their degeneration that they had combined their fire-duty with the more profitable occupation of fire-raising, demanding bribes to put out fires they themselves had started. Yashim vaguely remembered that the Janissaries had manned an important fire-tower on the edge of their old barracks here, which ironically collapsed in the conflagration of i8z6. Subsequently the sultan had ordered the construction of an extraordinary new fire-tower at Beyazit, a 2.6o-foot-high pillar of stone, topped with an overhanging gallery for the fire-watchers. Many people thought that the Beyazit Tower was the ugliest building in Istanbul; it was certainly the tallest, standing as it did on the Third Hill of the city. It was noticeable, all the same, that there were fewer fire-alarms these days.

“And who found the body, then?”

“I did. No, this is not a surprise. I was called because of the cauldron, and because the grooms were unhappy about the state of the horses. I was the first one to look inside. I am a military man, I’ve seen dead men before. And…” He hesitated. “I had already begun to suspect what I might see.”

Yashim said nothing.

“I gave nothing away. I ordered the horses out and had the doors barred. That’s all.”

Yashim pinged the cauldron with his fingernail. It gave a tinny sound. He pinged again.

The seraskier and he looked at each other.

“It’s very light,” Yashim remarked. They were silent for a moment. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said the seraskier, “that we do not have much time. Today is Thursday.”

“The review?”

“Ten days. To find out what is happening to my men.”