By God, I thought, startled into Italian. They’ve put off their rebellion until they’re actually within the city walls. They mean to shake the Empire to its very roots. Even with such a thought, it was difficult to do more than simply sit and grin at the perfection of the performance.
I saw a pair of figures elbow their way through the crowd to escape the scene of their crime, but they wore heavy black cloaks so it was impossible to distinguish uniform or rank. I could not imagine how any two soldiers could have dropped out of their perfect rows what with hundreds of cheering citizens watching them. I was tempted to believe that what I saw was just a part of a general exodus that began away from the street side: children and the more prudent men drifted indoors in answer to the nervous whispers of their women.
The rest of us shifted uneasily, but stayed to see what would happen—more from indecision, I think, than from any sort of civic interest. I wished briefly that Sokolli Pasha had ordered me to stay home, too, but as it was, there was really no time to think the matter out, else more of us would have had the sense to follow the women and children behind walls. Almost immediately, the first rank of the army, lead by a row of janissaries in feathered turbans and carrying bell standards, turned the corner and stopped in their tracks.
“Upon my word!” I heard one fellow exclaim with a very broad grin. His surprise was sarcastic and rehearsed. “If it isn’t a hay cart.”
“Hay cart! Hay cart!” the cry sped back through the halted troops. Somehow, by the same means, I suppose, the message was relayed forward that Selim and his guard had been halted most tantalizingly just before the Golden Gate, that portal which had stood as a triumphal arch for centuries of his predecessors, Greek and Turk alike, in the Great City. The army gave themselves quite a hearty congratulation and laughed, imagining how the Sultan’s horse must be stumbling and circling anxiously, and his majesty’s great red face sweating under his royal turban like raw meat.
Presently, two viziers came into view, picking their way cautiously on horseback through the clog of soldiers. I recognized the younger man as Sokolli’s second, Pertu Pasha and the older as the veteran Ferhad Pasha. A coincidence of names with this second official reminded me of the young spahi whose courage and endurance had saved the empire—and nearly lost me my lady—barely a month previously. And a sudden chill along my spine made me take note rather belatedly that some of the officers whose backs and turbans I’d seen milling about our door that morning had been wearing the violet of the same elite corps. But otherwise the young officer, still with only the title Bey after his name, had nothing in common with the reverend gray-bearded gentleman who, along with his fellow pasha, controlled my attention now. And the events before me were too riveting to give place to any other concern.
“Come, come, comrades,” the younger pasha said. “Your rebellion is an offense to the majesty of the Sultan.”
“Good!” a voice cried from the crowd. “There is entirely too much majesty in that man.”
And before anyone quite knew what had happened, the second vizier had been tumbled off his horse and into the dust. His turban tumbled after him accompanied by the cheers and a few bits of flying debris from the crowd.
Now old Ferhad Pasha spoke. “If it is revenge you want for any unknown crime,” he said, “pray, take my life and no other. I am old and willingly make this sacrifice for the good and peace of my country.”
The offer was refused and down Ferhad Pasha came, too, suffering no more than indignity. Now anger and violence began to move through the ranks like waves, and to rock the spectators as well. A very dangerous explosion was building—a number of stones had already been thrown, and there were drawn swords—when suddenly my master appeared.
Shoving back the massed soldiers with the butt of a lance, Sokolli Pasha made his way to the head of the column. I saw one particularly unruly man turn on the Grand Vizier after receiving a bruising whack. I think he meant to unsaddle this pasha as well, but before he got close, he was swiftly hit again, full in the face. This time, however, the weapon was not the lance but a small pouch full of aspers, and as the silver spilled to the ground, it was like cool water splashing on the very roots of the fire.
There were many more pouches where that one came from. Sokolli Pasha threw them liberally from a great sack he had slung at his side. The soldiers scrambled for the coins, and even some of the citizens managed to snatch a few, though they were at a disadvantage, being unarmed. Sokolli Pasha’s steed paced forward, up and over the hill of hay with hardly a backward slide. The cart was righted in an attempt to find some coins that had rolled under it. Then it was dragged to one side and soon even the straw had been sifted away. The column was on the move again, faster, if with slightly less dignity, than before.
The spectators scurried back to their places and let their tension out in a sigh that grew to cheers by the time the Sultan and his vanguard appeared. But it was not the name of Selim they called, not that red-faced, bleary-eyed man whose great weight stodgily crushed his little pony, and whose cheap and uncontrollable flesh seemed out of place beneath the intricate luxury of the crimson, tasseled canopy, and the tight, smooth, plumed, and bejeweled turban.
“Sokolli! Sokolli Pasha!” was the cry, and my voice joined all the rest.
I was
