The imam stopped polishing his eyebrow as it raised itself away from his fingertip.
“I beg your pardon?”
Yashim wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He said it again.
“They are a forbidden sect,” said the imam.
Not only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. Completely the wrong man. He began to get up, thanking the imam for his clarification.
“Stay, please. You want to know about them?” The imam had put up a hand. A discussion about doctrine now, that was another case entirely. The imam felt a great weight roll from his shoulders. They needn’t talk about lust or sodomy or whatever it was that eunuchs wished to talk about when they visited their imam. Whether it was possible for a man without bollocks to enjoy the houris of paradise.
Yashim resumed his seat.
“The Karagozi were prominent in the Janissary Corps,” the imam remarked. “Perhaps you know this?”
“Yes, of course. I know that they were unorthodox, too. I want to know how.”
“Sheikh Karagoz was a mystic. This was long ago, before the Conquest, when the Ottomans were still a nomadic people. They had a few mosques, here and there in the towns and cities they had conquered from the Christians. But the fighters were gazi, holy warriors, and they were not used to living in cities. They hungered after truth, but it was difficult for teachers and imams to stay amongst them. Many of these Turkish gazi listened to their old babas, their spiritual fathers, who were wise men. I say wise: they were not all enlightened.”
“They were pagan?”
“Pagan, animist, yes. Some, however, were touched by the words of the Prophet, peace be on him. But they incorporated into their doctrines a great deal of the old traditions, many esoteric teachings, even errors they had gathered up among the unbelievers. You must remember that those were tumultuous times. The little Ottoman state was growing, and many Turks were attracted to it. Every day, they encountered new lands, new peoples, unfamiliar faiths. It was hard for them to understand the truth.”
“And the Janissaries?”
“Sheikh Karagoz forged the link. Imagine: the early Janissaries were young men, uncertain in their faith, for they had been plucked from the ranks of unbelievers and had to forget many errors. Sheikh Karagoz made it easier for them. You know the story, of course. He was with the sultan Murad, who first created the Janissary corps from among the prisoners he took in his Balkan wars. When the Sheikh blessed them, with his hand outstretched in a long white sleeve, that sleeve became the mark of the Janissary, the headgear that they wore like an egret in their turbans.”
“So Sheikh Karagoz was a baba?”
“In a sense, yes. He lived somewhat later than the last babas of Turkish tradition, but the principles were the same. His teachings were Islamic, but they dwelt on mystery and sacred union.”
“Sacred union?”
The imam pursed his lips.
“I mean union of faiths, union with God. We say, for example, that there is only one path to truth, and that is written in the Koran. Sheikh Karagoz believed that there were other ways.”
“Like the dervish. Ecstatic states. Liberation of the soul from the prison of the body.”
“Exactly, but the means were different. You might say, more primitive.”
“How so?”
“A true adept considered himself to be above all earthly bonds and rules. So rule-breaking was a way of showing their allegiance to the brotherhood. They would drink alcohol and eat pork, for instance. Women were admitted under the same condi—tions as men. Much of the clear guidance of the Koran was simply brushed aside, as unimportant, or even irrelevant. Such transgressions helped to create a bond between them.”
“I see. Perhaps that made it easier for the Christian-born to approach Islam?”
“In the short term, I agree. They gave up fewer of their base pleasures. You know what soldiers can be like.”
Yashim nodded. Wine, women and song: the litany of the camp fire in every age.
