muezzin’s call to prayer at first light, were the night noises of Istanbul, and no one thought more about them.
Nowhere in the city was quieter than the Grand Bazaar, a labyrinth of covered streets which twisted and writhed like eels all the way down the hill from Beyazit to the shores of the Golden Horn. By day, the hum of the bazaar belonged to what was, even then, perhaps the most fantastic caravanserai in the world, an emporium of gold and spices, of rugs and linens, soaps and books and medicines and earthenware bowls. But it wasn’t just the place where the produce of the world was traded; within that square mile of alleyways and cubicles, some of the most delicate and useful products of the empire were manufactured daily. It was a concentration of the empire’s wealth and industry; it was served by its own cafes, restaurants, imams and hamams; and the strictest rules were laid down for its security.
The heights which commanded the bazaar—the so-called Third Hill of Istanbul—on which the Beyazit Mosque stood, had been chosen by the Conqueror, Sultan Mehmed, for his imperial palace; but the building was still incomplete when he began work on another palace, Topkapi on Seraglio Point, destined to be far greater and more magnificent than the first. The old palace, or Eski Serai, later served as a sort of annexe to Topkapi. It was a school where palace slaves were trained; a company of Janissaries were stationed in its walls; but its only royal inhabitants were women of previous sultans, despatched from Topkapi on the death of their lord and master to gloomy retirement in Eski Serai.
That dismal practice had lapsed many years before. Eventually, the Eski Serai sank into disrepair, and finally into ruin; its remains were cleared and from the rubble rose the fire-tower which still brooded watchfully over the Grand Bazaar.
The bag, which arrived in the night, was tied by its drawstrings to a heavy iron grille which protected the Grand Bazaar from prying eyes and enterprising thieves. By dawn more than a dozen people had commented on it, and within the hour, in front of a very squeezed-up crowd, it was finally brought to the ground.
No one was eager to be the one who opened it. Nobody thought it contained treasure. Everyone thought that whatever it contained, it would be horrible; and everyone wanted to know what it was.
In the end, it was decided to carry the bag, unopened, to the mosque, and ask the kadi for an opinion.
[ 32 ]
Several hours later the bag was opened for the second time that morning.
“It is a terrible thing,” the kadi said again, wringing his hands. He was an old man, and the shock had been great. “Nothing like this…ever…” His hands fluttered in the air. “It has nothing to do with us. Peaceful people…good neighbours…”
The seraskier nodded, but he was not listening. He was watching Yashim drag at the cords. Yashim stood up, and tipped the bag over onto the floor.
The kadi gripped a doorway for support. The seraskier skipped to one side. Yashim himself stood breathing heavily, staring at the pile of white bones and wooden spoons. Wedged in the pile, unmistakably dark, was a human head.
Yashim hung his head and said nothing. The violence is terrible, he thought. And what have I done to stop it? Cooked a meal. Gone looking for a toy cauldron.
The seraskier put out a booted foot and stirred the heap with his toe. The head settled in its grisly nest. Its skin looked drawn and yellow, and its eyes glittered faintly beneath half-lowered lids. Neither of them noticed the kadi leave the room.
“No blood,” said the seraskier.
Yashim squatted down beside the bones and spoons.
“But one of yours?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“You think so?”
“No, I’m sure. The moustache.” He gestured faintly to the severed head.
But Yashim was more interested in the bones. He was laying them out, bone by bone, paying particular attention to the shin, the femur, the ribs.
“It’s very odd,” he murmured.
The seraskier looked down. “What’s odd?”
