“One of them, it’s usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra—”
“Oh quite. I…I see. Please, it’s not what I meant.”
Yashim put on a puzzled expression.
“But don’t you play football in your country, too?”
The boy stared at him, then sagged.
“I’m sorry, yes, of course. I…I…” he was quite red in the face. “I think I’ll just go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me.”
Yashim gave a short smile, and went back to the books.
He had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates; but if the figures were even roughly correct they made for sobering reading.
How many Janissaries had died in the events of June 182,6? A thousand, possibly, at the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt which followed—say five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few, mostly of known ringleaders.
The rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found jobs at the soup-makers’ guild, as Yashim knew.
Which still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living. Well, that would be a shock to the system.
Yashim sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful men.
About fifty thousand of them, in fact.
[ 29 ]
The imam winced. Could he plead another engagement? He knew that the eunuch prayed in his mosque, but they had never spoken until today. He’d approached him after the noon prayer and asked for a word. And the imam had inclined his head, quite graciously, before he realised who was asking.
As the eunuch fell into stride behind him, the imam reflected that he had no right to withhold his sympathy, or his advice. He didn’t want to lie. Anyway, it was too late. Yet he viewed their discussion with foreboding.
How could a man be a good Muslim, if so many of those avenues by which a Muslim approached his God were, so to say, already blocked? The imam considered himself a teacher, certainly. But so much of his teaching was bound up with considerations of family: the blessing of children, the regulation that was appropriate to married life. He advised fathers about their sons, and sons about their fathers. He taught men—and women—how to conduct themselves in marriage. Straying husbands. Jealous wives. They came to him as a judge, with questions.
What could he discuss with a creature who had no family?
They reached his room. A divan, a low table, a pitcher on a brass tray. A few cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was still sumptuous. Running from the floor to shoulder height, the walls were decorated with a fabulous treasury of Iznik tile-work, centuries old, from the best period of the Iznik kilns. The blue, geometric designs seemed to have been applied only yesterday: they shone brilliant and pure, catching the sunlight which streamed through the windows overhead. In the corner, a black stove threw out a welcome warmth.
The imam gestured to the divan, while he stood with his back to the stove.
The eunuch smiled, a little nervously, and settled himself on the divan, kicking off his sandals before tucking his feet up beneath his burnous. Inwardly the imam groaned. This, he thought, was going to be difficult. He ran a fingertip across one eyebrow.
“Speak.”
His voice rumbled: Yashim was impressed. He was used to meeting people with something to hide, their speech marred by doubt and hesitancy, and here was a man who could give him answers stamped with authority. To be an imam was to live without uncertainty. For him, there would always be an answer. The truth was palpable. Yashim envied him his security.
“I want to know about the Karagozi,” he said.
