The Architect's Apprentice (22 page)

‘You have taken a royal elephant without permission?’ the Sultan asked. ‘Do you know you could be flogged for less than that?’

‘Your Majesty, I ask your forgiveness. I had to see you. I hoped if I came with the elephant you would notice me.’

If Jahan had dared to look up, he would have seen the Sultan’s eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘You must have a reason for such a misdeed.’

‘My Lord, if you’ll allow me …’ Jahan couldn’t help the quiver in his voice.

Slowly, Jahan unrolled the camel skin they had not had the opportunity to show the other day. He explained how important Sinan’s scheme was for the city and how many people – old, sick, frail and poor – would pray for the Sultan every time they quenched their thirst. Sultan Suleiman listened and asked questions. Jahan was delighted to see he had been right to assume that outside the palace walls the sovereign would be a different man – a kinder man.

The Sultan said, ‘Does your master know you are here?’

‘He does not. He’d be upset at me if he knew.’

‘I should be upset with you, but I’m not. You revere your master, clearly. If all of Sinan’s apprentices are as devoted as you, he’s a fortunate man.’

Jahan felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Of such unbidden vanities are perhaps spun life’s gravest delusions. It is at moments like this that Sheitan taps on our shoulders and whispers in our ear, asking, naively, why we should not want more.

‘Your Majesty, may I show you one more thing?’

The Sultan gave the slightest nod. Jahan took out the parchment he had kept inside his robe. It was a design of his own – for a stone river-bridge with seven arches.

It would have stone projections facing upstream to protect the piers from the force of the water and walkways above for pedestrians and animals. Its massive drawbridge would make it possible to control the flow of goods and passengers. If the Sultan accepted his bridge alongside Sinan’s waterways, Jahan would make quite a name for himself. ‘Architect of water’ they would call him. Or, better yet, ‘Sinan’s prodigy’. He might even be accepted into the guild, who knew. As a rule an apprentice made his way up no faster than a snail
would inch across a meadow, but why shouldn’t Jahan be an exception? His success would surely reach Mihrimah’s ears.

Casting no more than a glance at the design, the Sultan grabbed his stallion’s bridle. ‘I like your courage, young man. But courage is a dangerous thing. Remember, a ruler considers many aspects before making a decision. Go back, wait to hear from me.’

Off he rode, tailed by men, dogs and horses. Even after they had disappeared, Jahan could feel their wind on his skin. He heaved a sigh of relief. Everything had gone smoothly. He thanked the skies.

The next day, on the construction site, Nikola came running. ‘What happened? How did it go?’

‘I saw him. I talked to him.’

Nikola’s eyes grew wide. ‘You did?’

‘Yes!’ Jahan said with a feeling of triumph he could barely contain. ‘If you ask me, our Sultan wants us to build a new aqueduct and a bridge.’

‘What bridge?’

‘Oh, I mentioned this bridge I designed.’

‘Without consulting the master?’

Feeling uneasy, Jahan didn’t answer. All day he waited for a chance to speak with Sinan. It did not come. Instead, shortly before sunset, four Janissaries arrived.

Sinan greeted them. ‘
Selamun aleikum
, soldiers, what brings you here?’

‘We came to get one of your men, Architect.’

Sinan said, ‘There must be a mistake. My labourers are honest people.’

‘Not a labourer. An apprentice!’

Having overheard the conversation, Jahan walked towards them, sensing the inevitable. Just then Sinan asked, ‘Which one?’ A soldier gave Jahan’s name.

Baffled, Sinan blinked. ‘He is a good student.’

‘The Grand Vizier’s orders,’ said the head of the soldiers, who respected the master and did not want to upset him by dragging off his apprentice.

‘He didn’t do anything wrong, did he?’ Sinan insisted.

No one volunteered an answer. Into the awkward silence, Jahan muttered, ‘I’m sorry, master.’

Sinan’s face crumpled as he realized there were things about which he did not know. Placing his hands on Jahan’s shoulders, he squeezed hard, as if he wanted to pass on to him some of his faith. He said, ‘Whatever happens, I shall not leave you. You are not alone. God is with you.’

Jahan’s throat constricted. He dared not open his mouth for fear a sob would escape his lips. The soldiers, respectfully, walked on either side of him. As soon as the sounds of the construction site had been reduced to a faint murmur, they manacled Jahan’s hands. In this state he was taken to the Grand Vizier.

‘You!’ Rustem Pasha said, pointing a finger. ‘You had the effrontery to ambush the Sultan. Like a snake you slithered behind my back!’

Jahan felt sweat dampen his neck; he was trembling.

‘You intend to bring doom on the treasury, that’s it! I inquired about you. You seem to be full of lies! Are you an Iranian spy?’

‘My Vizier,’ Jahan said, his voice breaking, ‘I swear on the Holy Qur’an, I am no spy. I had no bad intentions.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Rustem called the guards.

This was how Sinan’s unruly apprentice, in an effort to help his master bring water to the city, found himself being taken to the dark dungeons of the Fortress of Seven Towers – where hundreds and hundreds of souls had gone before him but only a handful had come out alive.

‘Your name?’ the scribe asked for the second time.

Jahan was doing himself no favours by refusing to answer. Even so, something inside him resisted having his name added to that parchment, which included the name of every lowlife who had ever been caught in Istanbul. He was seized by an increasing fear that once you were written down, you would be entombed in this hole till the end of time.

The scribe glared at him. His accent, in contrast with his handwriting, lacked the slightest grace. ‘I ask, you answer. If you don’t, I chop off your tongue.’

The head warden, who had been watching them, interjected, ‘Now, now. No need to frighten the hen.’

‘A royal hen,
effendi
!’ said the scribe.

‘We shall see. All hens are the same with their feathers plucked.’

‘That’s right,
effendi
!’

Regarding Jahan with a deadpan expression, the head warden did not laugh. Thin-faced and round-shouldered, he reminded Jahan of a boy in his village who used to catch toads, tie them on a stick and dissect them with his knife – all the while his face unchanging, his stare vacant.

‘We never had anyone like him, did we?’ said the head warden, as if Jahan weren’t in the room.

‘Yeah, quite a catch, this one.’

‘The Grand Vizier’s catch!’

Jahan understood that they already knew everything about him. Asking his name – just like holding him in fetters when it was clear that he wasn’t going to take flight – was for the sheer pleasure of annoying him. By remaining silent he was only prolonging the mockery. His voice came out hoarse when he spoke. ‘I’m our Sultan’s elephant-tamer and apprentice to the Chief Royal Architect.’

A brief silence followed, pricked by the scratching of the scribe’s plume. When he finished, the scribe said, ‘He’s a sorry man, isn’t he,
effendi
?’

‘Sorry, for sure. Small man with a big enemy.’

Jahan swallowed hard. ‘My master will get me out of here.’

The head warden came so close that Jahan could smell his sour breath. ‘Every man who rotted in here had a master. It did them no good. Those masters did not even go to their funerals.’

The scribe chuckled. Jahan insisted, ‘My master is different.’

‘A cock that crows too soon is calling the butcher,’ said the head warden and, raising his voice, he said to the guards, ‘Take this prince to his palace.’

The guards shoved Jahan through a dingy, damp corridor. They went down a flight of stairs and entered a passageway so narrow that they had to proceed single file. Jahan could not help but notice the cracks on a wall where slimy, green moss had gathered. They descended to another floor, then another. The stench got thicker, the gloom heavier. He stepped upon something that he knew instinctively had once been alive.

They were in the belly of the tower. Save for a few sconces, it was so dark that if Jahan hadn’t known it was morning when he had been brought here, he would have believed night had fallen. There were cells left and right, carved out like missing teeth in a mouth. Then he saw
them
. Hollow-cheeked, raw-boned, short and tall, young and old. Some were watching him, their foreheads resting against the iron bars. Others ignored him, turning their backs. Still others were lying on coarse mats. Every now and then, Jahan caught sight of a bony arm reaching out for a ladle of water, a haggard face peeking out from the shadows, turds piled beside buckets filled to the brim with excrement.

One inmate cried out in a gravelly whisper, and when Jahan turned to hear what he was saying, he spat on his face. Unable to move his hands, Jahan tried to wipe off the phlegm with his shoulder. The prisoner laughed. Even when his lips had stopped moving, the laugh
ter continued – low, creepy. In that moment Jahan felt like the tower was jeering at him. His knees gave way. True, he was a thief, but not like them. These people were bandits, murderers, rapists, marauders and brigands. He should not have been among them. Bitterness rose in his throat like bile, almost choking him.

‘Walk!’ barked a guard.

Ahead of them something squeaked. The guard shone his torch on it. A bat. Jahan wondered how it had got in. There was no time to ponder. Opening a rusty gate, the guards pushed Jahan into an empty dungeon.

‘Here’s your throne, your Highness!’

Jahan waited for his eyes to get used to the dark. There were slivers of light from openings high above, no more than half a dozen and each no larger than a coin. This was where fresh air entered, if it did at all. He saw stone walls, a dirt floor, a threadbare mat and two wooden buckets – one of which was caked with faeces, and the other filled with water in which a few dead insects floated.

‘Hey, why didn’t you bring him here?’ someone yelled from across the hall.

The man raved about what he would do to Jahan. At each lecherous remark his mates hooted with laughter. They went on in this vein for a while, he shouting obscenities and smacking his lips, the others jeering. Soon they were singing a song – banging, clapping, stomping their feet. Such was the noise Jahan could not help but steal a glance at their cell, which, in contrast to his, was bright with candles.

One of the inmates – a lad with curly hair, almond eyes, dimpled cheeks – began to dance while the others whistled and cheered. With a slow sway, he pulled his shirt up, exposing his bellybutton, on which shone a tiny pearl. Underneath, a word was tattooed in letters large and legible enough for Jahan to make it out –
Beloved
.

‘Come on, Kaymak!’

‘Shake that sweet rump!’

Emboldened, Kaymak began to joggle his body. The harder he
jerked and jiggled the more ribald the taunting became. The other inmates – there were four of them – cackled, though Jahan noticed they were frightened of the bully. What struck him was that these prisoners were unchained, unlike himself and pretty much everyone else whom he had passed along the way. How they had obtained this privilege, Jahan could not possibly imagine.

As Jahan was observing the lad, the bully had been observing him. Suddenly, he grabbed Kaymak from behind and thrust himself forward as if mounting him. His cronies roared. Blushing, Kaymak broke into a nervous smile. The ruckus must have been heard from everywhere but the guards had disappeared.

The bully produced a blade from out of his boot. He licked its cold, sharp end and held it against Kaymak’s throat. The lad’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, but he continued swinging. For a while the three were locked in a world of their own – the bully, the dancer, the blade.

The bully stepped aside, rolled up his sleeve. His left arm was covered in bruises and lacerations: some of the latter had scabbed over, while others seemed to be recent. With one quick move he slashed his flesh from wrist to elbow. Trickles of blood dropped on to the floor, which, Jahan only now realized, was flecked with black stains. Try as he might to appear indifferent, Jahan went limp. It occurred to him that he could kill this man.

That was when a voice penetrated the air. ‘Enough, you lot!’

The command, unreal as it sounded, echoed off the walls and muted the commotion at once. Jahan glanced to his right, towards the cell at the end of the corridor. At first he saw nothing. Then, slowly, out of the dusk, strode a familiar face. Balaban.

The bully gave a grunt. ‘The chaps were havin’ a bit of fun.’

‘Yeah? Tell ’em they’re giving me a headache.’

The bully gestured to his men. They retreated to the corners of their cell, including the lad, who reluctantly strutted away.

‘One more thing,’ called Balaban.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Stop cutting yourself, Abdullah. Don’t want to see blood everywhere.’

‘It was for the newbie,’ Abdullah said, sounding offended that his gore wasn’t appreciated.

‘Well, the ceremony is over,’ Balaban said. He approached the iron bars of his cell, only now glancing at Jahan. ‘What do you know! It’s the Indian guy.’

There were five Gypsies with him in his dungeon, loyal to the core. One by one they bobbed their heads and saluted Jahan.

‘How did you end up in this shithole?’ asked Balaban.

‘I have upset the Grand Vizier,’ said Jahan. ‘And you?’

‘Me? I’ve done nothing. Just gave a kadi a little tickle!’

Balaban had been arrested for stealing a coach that belonged to a judge. This man had thrown Balaban’s distant cousin into gaol and sent his great-uncle to the gallows-tree. Determined to avenge his family, Balaban and his mates had purloined the kadi’s jewels and kaftans, cooked the peacocks in his courtyard, kidnapped his fourth wife and set his stables on fire. Only when they set their sights on his brand-new coach – brought from Frangistan and previously owned by a seigneur – had they been caught.

In the dungeons of the Fortress of Seven Towers, Balaban was king. Amid the misery and wretchedness he had made an oasis – soft, silk cushions, a brazier for warmth, a brass pot to brew coffee, the carved oak chair that was his throne. The inmates either revered or avoided him, careful not to tread on his toes. For they all had loved ones outside – parents, wives, children. Even the fiercest prisoner was aware that, should he wrong Balaban, a member of the Gypsy kith and kin would strike back. For Balaban was the head of an enormous tribe, the size of which was a mystery even to him. But this wasn’t the only reason why he was held in the highest regard. Inmates and guards dreaded the Romany jinx, which, if cast on a full moon, could be purged only in seven generations’ time. Even after the culprit died, his grandchildren would suffer the consequences.

All this Jahan learned fast. He suspected that behind the legends
about Balaban was none other than Balaban himself. Next to Sinan, he was the most intelligent man Jahan had met. But whereas his master’s wit was a calm, bottomless lake, Balaban’s was a turbulent river, slopping and sloshing over, too tempestuous to follow a course.

At night Jahan wrapped around himself a flimsy, moth-eaten blanket that reeked of every soul who had used it. Often it got so chilly his teeth chattered; the clatter reminding him of chisels chipping away at stone. Through the cracks in the walls the wind howled, insects scuttled, rats scurried. The thought of one of these creatures entering his ear or chewing up his nose was so terrifying he slept in fits and starts, awaiting the break of dawn, his head aching from clenching his jaw. He missed Chota. He longed to see Mihrimah once more, hear her satin voice. His previous life now seemed like a tale he vaguely knew because he had once heard it from someone else.

The guards were spiteful, the weeks painfully slow. Time became a winding staircase that reached nowhere. Loneliness, he could cope with; desertion he could not. Try as he might to find excuses he could not comprehend why Sinan had not even sent him a message. In the early days, whenever he heard footsteps down the corridor, he had expected the guards to release him. Not any more. Surely he was forgotten. He imagined them – Yusuf, Nikola, Davud and his master – working as usual, unaffected by his absence. He saw Mihrimah with her handmaidens, contemplating her face in a Venetian mirror, silently mourning, silently but not deeply. He thought about Chota and the animal-tamers in the palace, each in his own world. Resentment and rage infested his soul, multiplying faster than the lice crawling on his head.

Once a day they were given a piece of mouldy bread and a gruel with bits of gristle, none of which Jahan could cram down without retching. Hunger did strange things, he found out. No matter what time of the day, he dreamed of food – all kinds of provisions. He talked to himself, arguing with those who had hurt him in the past. Captain Gareth, Carnation Kamil Agha, the bear-tamer Mirka … Awake or asleep, he quarrelled with each of them. In his cell
Abdullah watched him with a wry smile, as though to say they were now beginning to look alike.

A month into this, the guards brought in a boy with a face too pretty for his own good – a pilferer, as it turned out. He could barely walk, having received a hundred strokes on each foot. Afterwards he had duly kissed the hands of his punisher, thanking him for teaching him the way of righteousness. He was asked to pay the man who had flogged him in return for having tired him so. The boy had not a single asper to his name. He was beaten again, and sent to the Fortress of Seven Towers.

There was plenty of space in Jahan’s cell, but the boy was put in the one opposite. It didn’t take Abdullah long to start harassing him. The boy resisted fiercely. Every so often Jahan heard his reedy voice, infused with fear. Dark circles appeared under his eyes. Jahan suspected he could not lay his head down to rest for having always to be alert.

One morning, having only just passed out at dawn, Jahan awoke to muffled sounds. He noticed Kaymak first, plucking his eyebrows in one corner of his cell. The others were playing a game of dice, yelling and swearing. Then he saw them: Abdullah had propped his blade against the boy’s throat, forcing him to be quiet as he pulled his breeches down. Everyone was feigning ignorance.

Jahan ran to the bars and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Balaban!’

Not a sound. ‘Balaban, hey!’

‘What?’ came a grumpy response. ‘Why are you braying like a horse?’