The Janissary Tree

[ 81 ]

Far away, in the first great court of the sultan’s palace at Topkapi, the carriages rolled away across the cobbles and through the high gate, to disappear towards the Hippodrome and the darkness of the city. Only one fine carriage still remained, its driver motionless on the box, whip in hand, two footmen standing behind like men of stone, impervious to the light drizzle. As the wind whipped the torches hung up along the inner wall the flare caught the glossy black shellac of the carriage door and lit up the royal arms of the Romanovs with its double-headed eagle: the symbol that so many centuries before had originated in this very city.

If all was ghostly still in the Russian ambassador’s carriage, in the boudoir of the Russian ambassador’s wife matters had reached a distinctly lively crisis.

With a heave of her shoulders, Eugenia let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Moments later, she was smiling lazily into Yashim’s ear.

“I may be vain, but I don’t suppose,” she whispered, “that this is why you came?”

Yashim propped himself up. His eyes were squeezed shut, as though he were in pain. Eugenia put out a hand and stroked his damp forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, simply.

Yashim blew out, and opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said: “The—map—in—the—vestibule. Where’s it got to?”

Eugenia laughed, but when she caught the look in his eye she whipped aside and knelt on the bed.

“Are you serious?”

“I need to look at that map,” he said. “Before your husband gets home.”

“Him?” A look of scorn crossed her face. “He won’t come in here.” She bounced off the bed and retrieved her peignoir, tying the sash with an angry tug.

“He has never forgiven me for marrying him. And you have no idea how bored I am.”

Yashim frowned. It was hard to believe that the prince could keep his hands off his wife for a moment. But there it was. Perhaps he, Yashim, was no better than those westerners who imagined the sultan in a scented paradise of houris.

“I’ve been here six months. I never go out. I change my dress three or four times a day—for what? For who? The sentries? Once a week my husband hosts a very dull dinner.”

She gathered her black curls in one hand and raised them to the back of her head. Then she let the curls fall.

“At home there’s a ball every night. I see my friends. I ride out in the snow. I—oh, I don’t know, I laugh, flirt, talk about literature and the arts, everything. I suppose that’s why I seized on you. You were the first Turk I ever had a chance to speak to. My first Turkish lover.”

Yashim lowered his eyes. Eugenia laughed again.

“I’ll show you the map. It’s just there.”

She pointed over his shoulder. He looked round and there it was, leaning against the wall, the familiar shape of the city like an animal’s snout, rootling the shores of Asia.

“I need to compare,” he explained, reaching for his cloak. He took out Palewski’s map, unfolded it, and crouched down by the Hontius map, smoothing Palewski’s against the glass.

“I just can’t imagine what you’re up to, but can I help?”

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

Yashim explained.

“On this map, we have all the religious buildings in Istanbul as they stood about thirty years ago. The ones I’m interested in are the Karagozi tekkes—the symbol seems to be an Arabic letter B, like this.”

“They’re awfully difficult to make out,” Eugenia said, pouting. “It’s a complete forest of Arabic squiggles.”

Yashim’s eye swept the map. “Originally I was looking for a fire-tower, but I’ve had to change my mind. The old map, this one of yours, shows us all the buildings which were standing in 1599. By comparing the two, we should be able to work out where the oldest Karagozi tekkes were.”

“You mean if something shows up on both maps, it was built before 1599.” Eugenia bit her lip. “You’d do best to split the city into several strips, north-south, say, so that you know where you are and don’t miss anything out.”

“That,” Yashim said, “is a very clever idea. Let’s do it.”

Eugenia took Palewski’s map and folded it into four pleats. Then she turned the first pleat over, and they began to plot the tekkes.

After twenty minutes they had covered the first quarter of the city and dismissed about a dozen tekkes as being too modern. Yashim struck them off. They were left with two possibilities.

“Next strip,” Eugenia said.

They worked on.

“Some people might think this was an odd way to spend time with a half-naked Russian girl in the middle of the night.”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“I like it.” Eugenia’s eyes crackled. She hugged her knees. “All the same, you might take me back to bed quite soon.”

They completed the second leaf. A possible candidate had popped up by the city walls, but this time it was the newer map which sowed the confusion, making it hard to say exactly which building had been the tekke.

“Halfway now,” Yashim reminded her.

“More than,” she said. “The city gets progressively thinner from here on, until it reaches Seraglio Point.”

“Quite true. Go on.”

About ten minutes later they identified the Stamboul Tower as a tekke.

“That’s good,” Yashim said. “It proves the system is working.”

“Pouf! I’m glad you told me now.”

The last fold of the map brought out the Galata Tower and also the old tekke in the Janissary headquarters, now buried beneath the Imperial Stables. As Eugenia had predicted they completed their comparison quicker, for not only did the city dwindle but much of it was covered with the palace and grounds above Seraglio Point. They found nothing there to surprise them.

“It’s late,” Yashim said. “I should go.”

Eugenia stood up and stretched, first on one foot, then the other.

“How? Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you, but the embassy is locked at night. High walls. Vigilant guards. A mouse couldn’t get in—or out. Fortunately for me, you are not a mouse.”

With a flourish she slipped the sash from her waist. Her peignoir swung open and she gave a shrug of her shoulders and stepped from it.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Yashim said, with a smile.

“We’ll see about that,” she said, and held out a hand.