The Janissary Tree

[ 85 ]

Half an hour later Yashim approached the square up a long, straight alley from the south.

Straight ahead, beyond the mouth of the alley, he had a clear view of the splendid cypress where earlier he’d stood talking with the old men.

From where he stood, five hundred yards back, he could see what he couldn’t see before. He could see over the top of the tree.

Just behind its slender tip, in solitary semi-ruined splendour, a Byzantine tower rose from the massive city walls.

The Kerkoporta. The little gate.

Not many Stambouliots learned the story of the Conquest of 1453 in any detail. It was ancient history, almost four hundred years old. It had been the fulfilment of destiny, and the how, or why, of its successful capture from the defending Greeks was a matter of little interest or relevance to people living in Turkish Istanbul in the nineteenth century.

Only two sorts of people had maintained their interest, and told the story to whoever wanted to listen.

The Janissaries, with pride.

The Phanariots, with regret—though whether that regret was perfectly genuine, Yashim had never quite been able to decide. For the Greek merchant princes of the Phanar, when all was said and done, had made their fortunes under Ottoman rule.

Yashim could remember exactly where he’d been when he first heard, in detail, the story of the Turkish Conquest. The Mavrocordato mansion, in the upper Phanar district, was the grandest, gloomiest palace on its street. Locked away behind high walls, and built in a style of high rococo, it was the headquarters of a sprawling family operation which extended to the principalities of the Danube and the godowns of Trabzon, taking in titles civil and ecclesiastical on the way. The Mavrocordatos had produced over the centuries scholars and emperors, boyar overlords and admirals of the fleet, rogues, saints and beautiful daughters. They were fantastically rich, dazzlingly well connected, and dangerously well informed.

There had been seven of them around a table, and Yashim. Their faces expressed many different things—humour and bitterness, dread or jealousy, complacency and contempt: but there had been one lovely face, too, he still saw sometimes in his dreams, whose glance said more. Only the eyes were the same, blue and brooding; Yashim had understood then why the Turks feared the blue eye.

The table had been covered in an Anatolian carpet that must have taken years to make, so tightly was it knotted. Coffee had been served, and when the heavy curtains were closed and the servants had withdrawn George Mavrocordato, the heavy-jowled patriarch of the clan, had invited Yashim to make his report.

Afterwards, George had slowly crossed to the fireplace, and the rest of them drifted over to sit with him in total silence that was like a form of speech. Eventually, George’s ancient mother had smoothed the belly of her black silk dress, and beckoned him across.

And she had told him the story of the Conquest.