The Architect's Apprentice (27 page)

Istanbul, the seat of the throne, weary of fires and earthquakes though it was, bulged at the seams. A honeysuckle of a city, it drew from near and far people of every kind – bustling, seeking, yearning. There were far too many souls under the same sky, outnumbering the stars at which they gazed – Muslims, Christians, Jews, believers and heretics of each faith, talking to God all at once, their pleas and prayers for succour and good fortune carried on the wind, mingling with the cries of seagulls. Jahan wondered how the Almighty could hear any of them over the commotion.

Towards the end of the summer, the Shayh al-Islam, Ebussuud Efendi, railed against Sinan. He declared that the marble plaques the architect had moved from the Hagia Sophia during a reconstruction were damned, and had brought one calamity after another upon the Istanbulites. In the end, not knowing where to place the cursed stones of the old church, Sinan and the apprentices used them in the tomb of Hurrem Sultana, trusting she wouldn’t mind.

In 1566, the first day of May it was, war was waged to conquer the fortress of Szigetvar, and the elephant’s services were required. Miserable as he was to hear this, Jahan complied. He might have been training as Sinan’s apprentice, but he was, and would remain so long as Chota was alive, the Sultan’s mahout.

They reached Belgrade in June; the Danube River ran as far as the eye could see – rowdy, alluring, grand. Sultan Suleiman, who up to then had been riding in front of them, slowed down his horse, a sorrel mare, to a trot. Little did Jahan know that this was because the Sultan’s gout had become so painful that he had difficulty keeping his seat on the mount. His Grand Vizier, Sokollu – an astute man with a measured voice and an earnest expression, a
devshirme
from a Bosnian village called Hawk’s Nest – had considered having him carried in a litter but ultimately rejected the idea. Such a move would only
dishearten the troops, who would rather see tadpoles raining from the sky than their commander frail and fading. That was when a solution was found: Chota.

Jahan was instructed to ready the elephant for carrying the Lord of East and West. ‘Make sure your animal knows who’s riding him,’ he had been forewarned.

The next morning Jahan saw the Sultan up close for the first time in several years. His skin, drained of colour, reminded him of the cold ashes that gathered in a fireplace, the flames long gone. His high forehead, which he had passed on to Mihrimah, was lined with wrinkles, an obscure calligraphy inked by time. Bowing low, Jahan kissed the hem of his kaftan – a robe of no fine cloth, since Suleiman still shunned opulence. His guards helped him up into the howdah. Once he was settled, Jahan took his seat on Chota’s neck. In this manner, they carried on.

They arrived at Szigetvar on the fifth day of August. It was a sweltering afternoon, the fields flecked with dandelions. They set up camp and brought over the siege cannons, pulled by dozens of oxen. Then they erected the Sultan’s tent, with its seven white horsetails, atop a hill from where the sovereign could gaze at the fortress they had sworn to capture. Inside the castle, the count Nikola Subic Zrinski was in command. His people had hung enormous cloths, the colour of blood, from the ramparts.

‘What does that mean?’ Jahan asked a foot-soldier.

‘It means they’ll not come out of that damn castle. They’d rather die.’

Stubborn and staunch, the count and his soldiers defended their citadel. Days turned into weeks. A month passed. The heat became unbearable. For food, they had roasted millet, nuts, dried meat and a piece of hard mare’s-milk cheese each. The flocks of sheep and goats that they had brought from Istanbul were waiting, ready to be slaughtered. How the enemy withstood the hunger and their diminishing numbers, Jahan could not say. The Sultan’s army would charge; the fortress would hold out. Many fell on both sides, more from the
Ottoman than from the enemy lines. But where the defenders had hundreds, the Ottomans had thousands. They buried their dead in pits deeper than the deepest wells and prepared themselves for another charge. Time and again they sent emissaries asking the count to surrender, promising safety should he do so. Sultan Suleiman offered to let him become the ruler of Croatia under Ottoman direction. Every messenger returned with the same answer: they would fight.

The sounds of the Ottoman cannonades echoed through the rolling hills. The enemy’s resistance was unshakable. The holes in the defences opened during the day were repaired at night by men, women and children. They used everything they had to fortify the walls – timber, fabric, carpets. Nothing was spared. Not even an exquisite silk tapestry that must have belonged to a wealthy family. Water nymphs danced on its surface, holding lyres, their hair shimmering like moonlight on dark waves. Jahan could not take his eyes off it. Nor could the Janissaries. There was something enchanting in the image of this lustrous paradise, its brightness and softness so alluring that the commanders, suspecting sorcery, ordered the tapestry to be bombarded. They attacked that part of the wall ceaselessly, until all the lustrous colours disappeared into a dull rag of soot and slag.

One clear afternoon in September, Jahan was riding Chota, bringing the Sultan back to his tent, when they heard a blast that would ring in their ears for days on end. The ground shook; billows of smoke rose above the clouds. The elephant jerked, almost throwing them down.

Jahan yelled orders at Chota, trying to soothe him while he gaped at the pitch-dark sky.

‘Mahout – what’s going on?’ the Sultan demanded from where he lay on cushions inside the howdah.

‘My Lord, they have blown up their arsenal … and themselves.’

‘What did you say?’ The Sultan sat up, leaning forward for a better look. ‘So they have,’ he murmured. ‘So they have.’

For a long, horrified moment the sovereign and the mahout
watched the blaze. Chota swung his trunk and flapped his ears in a frenzy. Oblivious to the animal’s unease, the Sultan ordered, ‘Go near. I want to see.’

Jahan obeyed, hoping that, midway, the elephant would not become overwrought. But when they reached the scene it would be he who would be shaken. The ground was strewn with shattered weapons and severed limbs; it was impossible to say which were the enemy’s and which were theirs. Jahan’s breath came in gasps as his gorge rose. Bile filled his mouth and nearly caused him to vomit. He hid his face with his hands.

‘Don’t cry,’ the Sultan said. ‘Pray.’

Ashamed of his weakness, Jahan straightened his shoulders. ‘I shall pray for our soldiers, my Lord.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Pray for them all. There’s no difference any more.’

This man who had, throughout the forty-six years of his rule, relentlessly fought one war after another; who had ordered his brightest Grand Vizier and perhaps his only friend to be killed; who had watched his eldest son being strangled, caused another son to die of sorrow and arranged for a third to be murdered far away in Iran; who had made himself the strongest of all the Ottoman sultans – this man had just said, in a field of dandelions and death, that in the end there was no difference between the soldier inside and the soldier outside the enemy stronghold, the Christian and the Muslim, leaving Jahan with a riddle that he would not solve for many years to come.

The next morning, the smell of burning flesh still canopied the battlefield, a stench so thick no wind could carry it away. Jahan felt as if the smell had lodged in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe, let alone swallow.

Still, like any other day, he made Chota ready for the sovereign, and they waited in front of his tent. Yet it was Sokollu who walked out after a while, saying, in a whisper, that he wished to have a word
with the mahout. By now Jahan had lived in the seraglio for long enough to know that if a Grand Vizier wished to speak with a common servant, something terrible must have happened or was about to. Jahan followed him, his heart in his mouth.

Inside the Sultan’s tent, though there was plenty of daylight, a lamp glowed dimly in one corner. Across from it, on a velvet sofa, was the Sultan, lying perfectly still.

‘Listen, son,’ said the Vizier. ‘What you see, no one knows. D’you understand?’

‘Is he –’ Jahan faltered.

‘That’s right, sadly. Our Sultan has passed away, may he dwell in Paradise. We will mourn later. You and I have an important duty.’

Not knowing where to look, Jahan stared, wide-eyed with woe, at his feet. Sultan Suleiman, aged seventy-two, had not lived long enough to glory in their triumph.

‘It’s essential that we hide the truth from the army.’ Sokollu spoke carefully, haltingly; a man who believed that words, like money, should be used sparingly. ‘Our Sultan will sit on the elephant as if it were any other day. You shall take him around.’

Jahan winced as it dawned on him that he would have to place a corpse on Chota. He asked, ‘What if somebody wants to speak to the Sultan?’

‘Make sure the elephant does not go near anyone. If the Janissaries see the Sultan from afar, that’ll be enough. They don’t need to hear his voice. All they need to know is that he’s alive.’

Suddenly they heard footsteps. The guards were bringing someone in. Sokollu, having ensured only the most trustworthy could pass through the threshold, craned his head to check who was entering. It was a short, bull-necked Tatar.

‘Oh, it’s you. Come forward.’

The Grand Vizier took out a scroll from his robe, kissed it and put it on his forehead. ‘Take this to Prince Selim.’

The man bowed low.

‘Be fast as the wind. Do not stop anywhere on the way. Eat
mounted. Don’t sleep. Don’t waste time. The fate of the empire depends upon you.’

Jahan wondered how long it would take to gallop from Szigetvar to Kutahya, where the Prince was serving as Governor. It was not enough that the news of his father’s death should reach him without delay; he, too, had to arrive at Istanbul in time. An empty throne was an ominous sign; anything could happen in the gap between the father’s death and the son’s ascension to the throne.

Sokollu brought out a Qur’an from a mother-of-pearl box. ‘I need you to swear on the holy book. Both of you.’

They did as told. Nevertheless the Grand Vizier didn’t seem satisfied. He inquired where they were from.

‘Hindustan,’ Jahan said.

‘Kazan,’ the messenger replied.

Sokollu took out a dagger, gilded and bejewelled. ‘Give me your hands.’

He made a cut on the messenger’s forefinger, then on Jahan’s. Blood trickled from their hands on to the sheath of the dagger. ‘If one of you gives the secret away, I shall kill you both.’

Jahan did not understand why his life should depend on a stranger, and the messenger must have felt the same way, for he turned to him with a frown. Still, neither dared to protest. Sokollu gave them two silk handkerchiefs to wrap around their fingers.

‘Now go, my son,’ he said to the messenger; ‘may Allah guide you.’

Jahan took a last look at the man whose loyalty he now counted on. They nodded at one another in silent farewell. Jahan would not know that years later it was this same messenger who would bring Master Sinan to the palace on the night when Sultan Suleiman’s grandson killed his five brothers to secure the throne.

No sooner had the messenger left than the physician came in. An ex-
converso
from Salamanca who had fully returned to his religion. He spoke Ottoman with a lilting accent. He, too, was sworn to secrecy, though without a holy script, since the five books of Moses were not present – and, for some reason, his finger was spared.

‘Can he help me?’ the physician asked, nodding towards Jahan.

Sokollu, his back now turned to them, was absorbed in forging the Sultan’s signature, sending out letters and orders in the sovereign’s name. He waved dismissively, saying over his shoulder, ‘Go help.’

The physician opened a jar that filled the tent with a pungent smell. A mixture of myrrh, cassia and other spices. They undressed the Sultan and anointed his entire body. What Jahan saw next he would not be able to tell anyone, no matter how badly he might want to. It would penetrate his dreams, time and again. The Chief Physician cut open the left side of the Sultan’s chest and pulled out the heart. It resembled a red bird in his palms, and, even though it lay motionless, for a second Jahan feared it was still beating. Holding it with both hands the physician placed it on a silver basin. Then he sewed the wound with twelve perfect stitches. Jahan glanced up at the man in horror. ‘
Effendi
, why did we do this?’