The Winter Thief

93

Sultan Abdulhamid received Kamil in his private quarters. Kamil could hardly believe three months had passed. Everything looked the same: the furnishings of the receiving hall, the sultan’s formal gold-braided suit, the tip of his sword embedded in the pile of the carpet. Enormous gilt-edged mirrors at the sides of the room reflected each other, as if opening a tunnel into the void. Dozens of officials and servants stood in formation along the walls, with Vizier Köraslan by the sultan’s shoulder. Only this time the French doors to the garden stood open, admitting a soft breeze. Birds rioted in the hydrangeas.

Kamil bowed before the sultan, then stepped back, keeping his eyes lowered.

The vizier walked over and closed the French doors. Kamil’s ears rang in the sudden silence.

“I’m glad to see you returned safely, Kamil Pasha.” Kamil thought he heard a trace of genuine concern in the sultan’s voice. “If you would be so kind, sit and tell me your account of events in the east.” The sultan indicated a brocaded chair.

As Kamil sat down, he felt the full weight of the exhaustion that had dogged him since his return. He straightened and took a breath. “From my inquiries, I estimate three to four hundred dead, most killed by the Kurdish irregulars, but many refugees died on the road of hunger, cold, and disease.” He couldn’t think what else there was to say.

The sultan waited for Kamil to continue. When he remained silent, Sultan Abdulhamid asked, “And what of the revolt? That was your purpose, was it not, to investigate the revolt?”

Kamil looked up into the black eyes of the sultan. He could read nothing in them, neither concern nor interest. “There was no revolt, Your Highness.”

“We have reports that there were hundreds of weapons in the villages as well as in the monastery where your supposed socialists set up their commune. I suppose those weapons all grew in the meadows like spring flowers.”

“The guns were taken from the arms shipment the police intercepted in Istanbul in January.”

“I thought the police had confiscated those,” the sultan exclaimed, turning to Vizier Köraslan for explanation.

“The cargo was moved to Yorg Pasha’s warehouse,” the vizier admitted. “The British company wanted its ship back, and we thought that was the best place to store the guns. As far as I know, they’re still there.”

“You didn’t know they had been stolen?”

The vizier flushed.

“What of your Akrep sources?” the sultan asked impatiently. “Surely they knew. This was under their jurisdiction.”

Vahid had let the vizier down, Kamil thought with satisfaction. The Akrep commander had been away in the east. Did Vizier Köraslan know that?

“Perhaps Yorg Pasha didn’t report them stolen. I’ll find out, Your Highness.”

“Do.” Sultan Abdulhamid turned back to Kamil. “Hundreds of weapons in the hands of Armenians in the east, right on the border with Russia, and yet you claim there was no revolt.”

“The weapons were distributed only after word spread of an impending attack on the villages.”

“How do you know that?” the vizier snapped.

“The news of the attack was in a telegram waiting for me in Trabzon. I have it here.” He handed the vizier the telegram. “By the time I arrived, the entire region had learned of its contents.”

“The villagers, led by these Armenian socialists, attacked our troops.” The vizier’s face was flushed with outrage.

How do you explain a massacre, Kamil wondered, except in parables? “Your ten-year-old son is feeding the cow,” he began, “and a soldier kills him with an ax to the back of his head. You go to protest, and you too are brought down. All the men of the village and older boys are herded together in the square and killed. Not shot, but axed, to save ammunition. Then the soldiers break down the doors shielding the women and girls. Their fate is worse.”

“What in Allah’s name are you talking about?” Vizier Köraslan shouted. “How dare you profane the padishah’s presence with such nightmarish lies?”

“If you could get hold of a gun, what would you do?” Kamil continued calmly.

“That is not the behavior of an Ottoman soldier,” Sultan Abdulhamid said, his voice tight. “Are you insulting our army?”

“No, Your Glorious Majesty. The Ottoman army is a professional force. The soldiers you sent with me were obedient, dutiful, and fought bravely.”

“Who were they fighting?” Vizier Köraslan asked triumphantly, so that Kamil knew Vahid was back in Istanbul and had told him.

Kamil lowered his eyes and answered in a soft voice, “The wolves of the steppes devour the lambs and blame the shepherd.” He felt very weary and incapable of explaining.

“Stop talking in riddles,” the vizier snapped. “You suborned the sultan’s household troops to fight against the empire.”

Kamil raised his eyes and looked Vizier Köraslan full in the face. He saw fear behind his arrogance. “The Akrep commander led the offensive against the population, so you can place blame either way.”

Kamil saw the sultan glance sharply at Vizier Köraslan, and the vizier grow thoughtful. Vahid was rapidly becoming a liability, Kamil reflected with a trace of smugness.

“Kamil Pasha”-the sultan leaned forward, and Kamil heard a thin vein of compassion in his voice-“I understand you have been through a difficult time. I have also heard that you used a great part of your own fortune to save the lives of the refugees that descended upon Trabzon. Let us leave aside the question of who shot at whom and deal with the matter immediately at hand. I commend you for your humanity and your generosity. You are a true Ottoman.

“Once the engagement was over, the women and children deserved bread and a roof over their heads. If you hadn’t stepped in, the loss of life would have been tremendous. The empire has already come under attack by foreign journalists for supposedly attacking defenseless villagers. Whether or not they were defenseless is a question it seems we must disagree on. But if many more had died on the outskirts of Trabzon, the consequences for the empire would undoubtedly have been severe. Britain or Russia might have felt called upon to intervene. As it is, the newspapers took note of your admirable efforts and the world has already forgotten the Choruh Valley. You are quite an international hero, you know.”

Kamil looked confused. He had disembarked only a few hours earlier and had come straight to the palace. He saw the sultan motion to the vizier, and after a few moments, the man returned with a stack of foreign newspapers.

Although the vizier’s every outward motion was unfailingly polite, as he bent to hand Kamil the papers he caught his eye, and Kamil felt a wave of hatred and fear communicated in that look. Kamil wondered what could make a formidable man like the vizier so afraid. He recalled the rumors that the vizier’s son had murdered his friend. If Vahid had engineered a cover-up, he would be in a position to threaten the vizier’s family and reputation, and that was a threat that could bring low the most powerful man.

Kamil flipped through the stack of newspapers in his lap. The front page of the The Times of London showed a grainy photo of makeshift shelters in Trabzon. The headline announced: PASHA PAYS FOR ARMENIAN RELIEF. The New York Tribune read: OTTOMAN LORD RESCUES ARMENIANS. A rather inaccurate drawing of him with an oversized nose and bristling mustache showed him protectively holding his fez, in which a miniature huddle of threadbare women and children were sheltering. There was more of the same, in every language.

Kamil was stunned. “This is wrong.”

The sultan smiled at him. “Enjoy your fame, Kamil Pasha. To thank you for your service to the empire, I am bestowing on you the High Order of Honor and a yali mansion in Sariyer. May you be happy there.”

Vizier Köraslan held out a velvet-covered box, its lid open. Sultan Abdulhamid asked Kamil to approach. The sultan stood, took the High Order of Honor from its case, and lifted the sash over Kamil’s bowed head. It was an eight-pointed gold star with a central medallion bearing the seal of Sultan Abdulhamid II. It was surrounded by four green enamel banners on which Kamil read the words “patriotism, energy, bravery, fidelity.”

“I congratulate you and thank you for your service to the empire.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kamil stuttered, overwhelmed and greatly disturbed. He bowed his head.

The sultan sat back down. “Oh, and did you discover the missing gold from the bank?”

“No, Your Highness. I’ve failed in that. The perpetrator is dead, so we may never know what happened to it.” Kamil noted dispassionately that he felt only a slight twinge of guilt at lying to the sultan. What else could he have said? The truth, that he had spent half of that stolen gold saving the lives of hundreds of people, presented a moral conundrum that he felt unable to solve. He had chosen life over honesty, one kind of justice over another, but he knew not everyone would agree that he had chosen well. He was certain that the vizier wouldn’t agree, but he wondered what the sultan would think.

“I see.” The sultan tapped his fingers on the chair arm and regarded Kamil thoughtfully but said nothing more. He lifted his index finger, and the vizier stepped forward to signal an end to the audience.

As Kamil backed out of the room, his mind was on something Vera had told him. “Karl Marx,” she had said, “believes that money is like a living being that divides and multiplies, so that those who have it gain ever more, while sucking the life from those who have none and never will.” At the time he had thought it an exaggeration.