In his room he lit the lamps, kicked off his street shoes and hung his cloak on a peg. He trimmed the wicks and opened the window a fraction of an inch to clear the accumulated air. With an oil-soaked scrap of rag and a handful of dry twigs he started a fire in the grate and scattered a few lumps of charcoal on top. Then he started to cook.
He dropped the stock vegetables into a pot, added water from the jug, and settled it on the back of the stove to reach a simmer. He slid a ripple of olive oil over the base of a heavy pan and chopped onions, most of the leeks, and some garlic cloves, putting them on to sweat. Meanwhile with a sharp knife he scalped the pumpkin, scooped out the seeds and put them aside. Careful not to break the shell he scraped out the orange flesh with a spoon and turned it with the onions. He threw in a generous pinch of allspice and cinnamon, and a spoonful of clear honey. After a few minutes he set the pan aside and dragged the stock-pot over the coals.
He put a towel and a bar of soap in the empty water basin and went downstairs to the stand-pipe in the tiny back yard, where he unwound his turban and stripped to the waist, shivering in the cold drizzle. With a gasp he ducked his head beneath the spout. When he had washed he towelled himself vigorously, ignoring his smarting skin, and filled the water jug. Upstairs he dried himself more carefully and put on a clean shirt.
Only then did he curl up on the divan and open the valide’s copy of
When he opened them again he was not sure if he had been asleep; there was someone knocking on the door. With a guilty start he scrambled to his feet and flung back the door.
“Stanislaw!”
But it wasn’t Stanislaw.
The man was younger. He was kicking off his shoes, and in his hand he carried a silken bow string, looped around his fist.
[ 113 ]
The seraskier walked briskly across the first court of the palace, and stepped out through the Imperial Gate, the Bab-i-Humayun, into the open space which separated the palace from the great church, now a mosque, of Aya Sofia. After the unnatural stillness of the palace he was struck by the returning noises of a great city: the rumble of iron-hooped cart-wheels on the cobbles, dogs worrying and growling at scraps, the crack of a whip and the shouts of mule-drivers and costermongers.
Two mounted dragoons spurred their horses forwards and brought up his own grey. The seraskier swung up gracefully into the saddle, settled his cloak, and turned the horse’s head in the direction of the barracks. The dragoons fell in behind him.
As they passed beneath the portico of the mosque, the seraskier glanced upwards. The pinnacle of Justinian’s great dome, second in size only to the basilica of St Peter’s in Rome, stood high overhead: the highest spot in all Istanbul, as the seraskier well knew. As they jogged along, he scanned the lie of the land for the hundredth time, mentally setting up his artillery batteries, disposing his troops.
By the time they reached the barracks, he had made decisions. To scatter his forces through the city would be futile, he reckoned; it might even increase the danger to his men. Better to choose two or three positions, hold them securely, and make whatever forays were necessary to achieve their ends. Aya Sofia was one assembly point; the Sultan Ahmet Mosque to the southwest would be another. He would have liked to put men into the stables of the old palace of the Grand Vizier, just outside the seraglio walls, but he doubted that the permission would be forthcoming. There was a hill further west which provided a clear trajectory towards the palace.
It was the palace, essentially, he had to think about.
Having regained his apartments, he summoned a dozen senior officers to a briefing.
He followed the briefing with a short pep talk. Everything, he said, depended on how they and their men conducted themselves over the next forty-eight hours. Obedience was the watchword. He had every confidence that together they could meet the challenge that had presented itself.
That was all.
[ 114 ]
Yashim made a grab for the door. The man on the threshold sprang forwards and for several seconds they fought for purchase, separated only by the thin door which lay between them. But Yashim had been caught off balance, and it was he who yielded first: he leaped away from the door and his assailant came barrelling into the room, almost stumbled, but whipped round fast to face Yashim at a sagging crouch.
A wrestler, Yashim thought. The man was completely shaved. His neck sloped into his big shoulders, which bulged from the arm-holes of a sleeveless leather jerkin. The leather was black and glistened as though it had been oiled. He was short-legged, Yashim noticed, his bare feet planted a yard apart on the rug, knees bent, slim-waisted. There was no sign of a weapon beyond the string in his right fist.
