Horn. Across the jostling waterway, Yashim could just make out
Scutari on the opposite shore, the beginning of Asia.
The
Greeks had called Scutari Chalcedon, the city of the blind. In founding the
city, the colonists had ignored the perfect natural setting across the water,
where centuries later Constantine was to turn the small town of Byzantium into
a great imperial city that bore his name. For a thousand years, Constantinople
was the capital of the Roman Empire in the east, until that empire had shrunk to
a sliver of land around the city. Ever since the Conquest in 1453, the city had
been the capital of the Turkish Ottoman Empire. It was still officially called
Constantinople, though most ordinary Turks referred to it as Istanbul. It
remained the biggest city in the world.
Fifteen
hundred years of grandeur. Fifteen hundred years of power. Fifteen centuries of
corruption, coups, and compromises. A city of mosques, churches, synagogues; of
markets and emporia; of tradesmen, soldiers, beggars. The city to beat all
cities, overcrowded and greedy.
Perhaps,
Yashim sometimes reflected, the Chalcedonians hadn't been so blind, after all.
He
had half expected the Albanian to stay away, but when he looked up there he
was, massive and grim, hitching his cloak. Yashim gestured to the divan, and he
sat down, pulling a string of amber prayer beads from his shirt. He counted
about a dozen with a massive thumb, looking straight at Yashim.
"Ali
Pasha of Janina," the soup master said. "The name means something to you?"
Ali
Pasha was the warlord who by guile and cruelty had built up a semi-independent
state in the mountains of Albania and northern Greece. It was fourteen years
since Yashim had seen his head displayed on a pillar at the gates of the
Seraglio.
"The
Lion," Mustafa rumbled. "We called him that. I soldiered in his army--it was my
country. But Ali Pasha was foxy, too. He gave us peace. I wanted war. In 1806 I
went to the Danube. That is where I joined the corps.
"The
Janissaries?"
The
soup master nodded. "As a cook. I was already a cook, even then. To fight--it's
not so much for a man. For an Albanian, it's nothing. Ask a Greek. But
cooking?" He grunted with satisfaction.
Yashim
clasped his hands and blew into them.
"I
am a man of tradition," the soup master continued, still slowly sliding the
prayer beads under his thumb. "For me, the Janissaries were the tradition. This
empire--they built it, didn't they? And it is hard for an outsider to
understand. The Janissary regiment was like a family."
"Every
regiment says that."
The
soup master shot him a scornful look. "They say that because they are afraid
and must fight together. That is nothing. There were men in the corps I loved
because they could handle a falcon, or make poetry, better than anyone in the
world before or since. Believe me. There was a brave fighter who trembled like
a leaf before each battle but fought for ten. We looked after each other, and
we loved each other--yes--they loved me because I could make them food anywhere,
the same way we loved the cobbler who would see us shod even when he had
nothing but bark and pine needles to work with. We were more than family. We
had a world within a world. We had our own food, our own justice, our own
manner of religion. Yes, yes, our own manner. There are various ways to serve
God and Muhammad. To join a mosque is one way, the way of the majority. But we
Janissaries were mostly Karagozi."
"You're
saying that to be a Janissary was to follow a form of Sufism."
"Of
course. That and all the other rituals of being a Janissary. The traditions."
The
traditions. In 1806 the sultan, Selim, had begun to train up a parallel army to
the Janissaries. In that respect it was a forerunner of Mahmut's New Guard. But
Selim, unlike Mahmut, had had little time to organize: the result was that when
the Janissaries rebelled against their sultan, they crushed him and destroyed
his re-formed army. The rebel Janissaries had been led
Scutari on the opposite shore, the beginning of Asia.
The
Greeks had called Scutari Chalcedon, the city of the blind. In founding the
city, the colonists had ignored the perfect natural setting across the water,
where centuries later Constantine was to turn the small town of Byzantium into
a great imperial city that bore his name. For a thousand years, Constantinople
was the capital of the Roman Empire in the east, until that empire had shrunk to
a sliver of land around the city. Ever since the Conquest in 1453, the city had
been the capital of the Turkish Ottoman Empire. It was still officially called
Constantinople, though most ordinary Turks referred to it as Istanbul. It
remained the biggest city in the world.
Fifteen
hundred years of grandeur. Fifteen hundred years of power. Fifteen centuries of
corruption, coups, and compromises. A city of mosques, churches, synagogues; of
markets and emporia; of tradesmen, soldiers, beggars. The city to beat all
cities, overcrowded and greedy.
Perhaps,
Yashim sometimes reflected, the Chalcedonians hadn't been so blind, after all.
He
had half expected the Albanian to stay away, but when he looked up there he
was, massive and grim, hitching his cloak. Yashim gestured to the divan, and he
sat down, pulling a string of amber prayer beads from his shirt. He counted
about a dozen with a massive thumb, looking straight at Yashim.
"Ali
Pasha of Janina," the soup master said. "The name means something to you?"
Ali
Pasha was the warlord who by guile and cruelty had built up a semi-independent
state in the mountains of Albania and northern Greece. It was fourteen years
since Yashim had seen his head displayed on a pillar at the gates of the
Seraglio.
"The
Lion," Mustafa rumbled. "We called him that. I soldiered in his army--it was my
country. But Ali Pasha was foxy, too. He gave us peace. I wanted war. In 1806 I
went to the Danube. That is where I joined the corps.
"The
Janissaries?"
The
soup master nodded. "As a cook. I was already a cook, even then. To fight--it's
not so much for a man. For an Albanian, it's nothing. Ask a Greek. But
cooking?" He grunted with satisfaction.
Yashim
clasped his hands and blew into them.
"I
am a man of tradition," the soup master continued, still slowly sliding the
prayer beads under his thumb. "For me, the Janissaries were the tradition. This
empire--they built it, didn't they? And it is hard for an outsider to
understand. The Janissary regiment was like a family."
"Every
regiment says that."
The
soup master shot him a scornful look. "They say that because they are afraid
and must fight together. That is nothing. There were men in the corps I loved
because they could handle a falcon, or make poetry, better than anyone in the
world before or since. Believe me. There was a brave fighter who trembled like
a leaf before each battle but fought for ten. We looked after each other, and
we loved each other--yes--they loved me because I could make them food anywhere,
the same way we loved the cobbler who would see us shod even when he had
nothing but bark and pine needles to work with. We were more than family. We
had a world within a world. We had our own food, our own justice, our own
manner of religion. Yes, yes, our own manner. There are various ways to serve
God and Muhammad. To join a mosque is one way, the way of the majority. But we
Janissaries were mostly Karagozi."
"You're
saying that to be a Janissary was to follow a form of Sufism."
"Of
course. That and all the other rituals of being a Janissary. The traditions."
The
traditions. In 1806 the sultan, Selim, had begun to train up a parallel army to
the Janissaries. In that respect it was a forerunner of Mahmut's New Guard. But
Selim, unlike Mahmut, had had little time to organize: the result was that when
the Janissaries rebelled against their sultan, they crushed him and destroyed
his re-formed army. The rebel Janissaries had been led
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