XLVII
More than once I had spoken to this same holy man face-to-face without recognition. But I now, in the mystical way of such creatures, knew him at first glance. It was my old, dear friend Husayn—or rather, in his present manifestation, the no less dear but saintly Hajji.
I had known him since childhood. When my family was lost, he had replaced them. He had saved my life on more than one occasion, more than enough to make up for the time I’d saved his, by accident more than design. He had also taken revenge for me, killing the man that had castrated me. In committing this crime, he had willingly given up the comfortable life of a wealthy merchant for the wandering, anonymous asceticism of a dervish.
I had not seen Husayn, I suddenly realized, since leaving Konya, when our girl, old enough now to be a bride, had not even been conceived. And at that first glimpse of my ancient friend, I realized how achingly he had been missing from my life.
My feet shed the years and the steps between us as pitch sheds water. In a moment, I was down in the garden, running towards him and calling, “My friend! My friend! A thousand blessings on your presence here! How my eyes rejoice to see you!”
Hajji stood as stoically as a statue—like a Christian saint instead of a Muslim—and the names of Allah dropped from his fingers (his rosary) like the last of the night’s rain from the leafless branches. He did not move to greet me. But when we were close enough to speak, the precipitate form of his words could only be allowed to one totally indifferent to society’s rules of polite, flowery greeting. He said no more than this: “Your master, my friend. I have information that there is a plot on his life.”
I stood clutching his free hand in both of mine, grinning and panting. He said no more but looked at me steadily until the full import of his words sank in. I swallowed the silliness of my grin away—my teeth were cold beneath my lips—and caught breath to ask soberly, “How? When? Who is it?”
Hajji chose to answer my middle question only, saying, “If he is not warned at once...indeed, it may be Allah’s will that you are already too late.”
“Yes. Yes,” I said with a hard but still puzzled nod between each syllable. “I will go. But you must step inside and accept our hospitality until I return.”
I found the gatekeeper, the gardener, and the gardener’s boy idling by a fire in the gatekeeper’s room. It took a bit longer to convince them—I invented more details than I knew in the end. But finally they were willing to stir from their fire. The boy I sent into the garden to find my friend and honor him with hospitality until we came back.
Perhaps this is all foolishness, I thought as the gatekeeper girded himself about with his token weapon—a rusty old sword—and the gardener and I took up sticks to add to my ceremonial dagger. Did not the chiauses, real soldiers armed with real weapons, accompany my master as they always did? What good shall we do but cause the laughter of sober citizens as if we were the stragglers of a drunken brawl. It was with these thoughts that I warned my companions not to slow down, but to move with care. My friend had brought this intelligence and I knew he wouldn’t lie.
“We do not want to alert the assassin,” I explained, “and give him time to evade us.”
We made our way quickly to the Second Court—as close to the heart of the palace as I could get using the men’s entrance. In spite of my caution, our arrival seemed to be the most excitement that court had seen all day. Because of the weather, the usual crowd of spectators had stayed home from this Divan. Even of the petitioners most, it seemed, had decided their grievances could wait for fairer weather.
A few of the most obnoxious variety of merchants, some craftsmen too indigent to go back to their tools, a eunuch on his mistress’s business (so he dared not return empty-handed) and a single, ragged dervish were the only citizens hunkering in the portico. They sat talking quietly to one another or to themselves with the drop of rosary beads. There were no scuffles as adversaries met, no loud cries for justice as a meeting of the Divan could bring forth on a hot, passionate day.
With a rabble of such proportions, the janissaries set to guard the court were at ease—at least they were until we appeared. Three men bursting in flushed with fear and haste brought them up from their gambling to stand at attention. My companions were immediately struck by the peace of the scene and hung back sheepishly, trying to look like common loiterers. This would only arouse more suspicion, I thought, so I took it upon myself to go and speak to one of the guards.
I walked up to one I remembered having seen before: He had a horrible scar from the corner of his left eye to his chin that even left a thin bare gap in his mustache. I had seen him sometimes with Ferhad, the Agha of the Janissaries. Otherwise, men in blue and yellow all look pretty much the same to me and I always mistrust the violence that uniform represents.
The janissary, for his part, let his hand go to his sword and he fingered it nervously as I approached. He didn’t recognize me. One eunuch’s robe looks like the next in soldier’s eyes, I suppose, and they mistrust us all for being secretive.
“How fares the Divan today?” I asked.
“Fine, fine, thanks be to Allah,” he said, still mistrusting me.
A few more questions drew these details
