The Janissary Tree Read Free Page A

eastward through the empty
streets, following the city's spine toward the imperial stables. Outside the Beyazit
Mosque, torches nickered in the dark; they passed the Burnt Column close to the
entrance to the Grand Bazaar, now shuttered and still, holding its breath as it
guarded its treasures through the night. Farther on, near the Sehzade Mosque
above the Roman aqueduct, they ran across the night watch, who let them go when
he saw who it was. Eventually, they reached the stables. The stables, like the
Guard itself, were new. They had been erected close below the ridge, on the
southern side, on an area of ground that had been vacant since the suppression
of the Janissaries ten years before, when their vast and rambling barracks had
succumbed to bombardment and conflagration.
    Yashim
had found the cauldron, just as the seraskier had described. It stood in a
corner of one of the new stables, surrounded by bedding straw and lit by large,
globular oil lamps suspended on heavy chains from the tie beam way overhead. The
horses, the seraskier explained, had been removed.
    "It
was the horses' disturbance that brought the matter to light," he added. "They
do not like the smell of dead men."
    Yashim
had not realized when the seraskier described it that the cauldron was so very
big. It had three short legs and two metal loops on either side for handles;
even so, Yashim could barely see over the top. The seraskier brought him a
mounting stool, and Yashim climbed it to look inside.
    The
dead soldier was still in his uniform. He was coiled in a fetal position at the
bottom of the pot, just covering the base: his arms, which were tied at the
wrist, were drawn up over his head, making it impossible to see his face. Yashim
stepped down and brushed his hands automatically, though the rim of the pot was
perfectly clean.
    "Do
you know who he is?"
    The
seraskier nodded. "Osman Berek. I took his pocketbook. You see--
    He
hesitated.
    "Well?"
Yashim prodded.
    "I
am sorry to say, the body has no face."
    Yashim
felt a chill of disgust. "No face?"
    "I--I
climbed in. I turned him just a little. I thought I would recognize him,
but--that's all. His face has been hacked off. From below the chin to above the
eyebrows. It was done, I think, at a single blow."
    Yashim
wondered what force was needed to sever a man's face from his body at a blow. He
turned around. "The cauldron is always here? It seems an odd place for it."
    "No,
no. The cauldron came with the body."
    Yashim
stared. "Please, efendi. Too many surprises. Unless you have more?"
    The
seraskier considered. "The cauldron simply appeared in the night."
    "And
nobody heard or saw anything?"
    "The
grooms heard nothing. They were asleep in the lofts."
    "The
doors are barred?"
    "Not
usually. In the event of a fire..."
    "Quite."
According to an old saying, Istanbul suffered three evils-- plague, fire, and
Greek interpreters. There were so many old wooden buildings in the city, too
closely packed: it took only a careless spark to reduce whole sections of the
city to ashes. The unlamented Janissaries had been the city's firemen, too: it
was typical of their degeneration that they had combined their fire duty with
the more profitable occupation of fire raising, demanding bribes to put out
fires they themselves had started. Yashim vaguely remembered that the
Janissaries had manned an important fire tower on the edge of their old
barracks here, which ironically collapsed in the conflagration of 1826. Subsequently,
the sultan had ordered the construction of an extraordinary new fire tower at
Beyazit, a 260-foot-high pillar of stone, topped with an overhanging gallery
for the fire watchers. Many people thought that the Beyazit Tower was the
ugliest building in Istanbul; it was certainly the tallest, standing as it did
on the Third Hill of the city. It was noticeable, all the same, that there were
fewer fire alarms these days.
    "And
who found the body, then?"
    "I
did. No, this is not a surprise. I was called