The Janissary Tree

[ 89 ]

As the lid swung up on well-oiled hinges Yashim took a cautious peek inside.

The light was dim, and the interior of the chest in shadow, but even so Yashim could recognise something that was as prosaic as it was unexpected.

Instead of the dead cadet he dreaded, a stack of plates.

Beside the plates lay a tray of rather finicky little glasses, turned on their rims to keep out dust. Next to them, a metal goblet covered with what proved to be a folded strip of embroidered cloth. And a book.

Yashim picked it up. It was the Koran.

Otherwise the chest was empty, and smelled of polish.

Yashim smiled, a little grimly.

They’re getting the caterers in, he said to himself. For a feast.

A Karagozi bacchanal.

He closed the lid quickly and made for the stairs. Halfway up he found himself swallowed in darkness and began taking the stairs two at a time, surging out of the spiral and across the chamber he had come in by, not caring that his flying feet raised a cloud of dust as he slewed over the floor. Out on the parapet he yanked the door closed, hooked the chain, and leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily. From where he stood he could look down into the branches of the elegant cypress tree.

How is it, he asked himself, that I can be frightened by a set of crockery?

Because, he thought, this time I’ve got it right. Three bodies turn up, close by three tekke. This would be the fourth. Established on the site of the Janissaries’ greatest triumph—the Conquest of Constantinople.

And the body was yet to come.