and
wanted to investigate Janissary regiments See. The Amb says Istanbul is much
duller without the Janissaries, Fizerly tells me. Not too dull for
Yr
loving bro.,
Frank
"Who
are you working for?"
Frank
Compston spoke French badly. Yashim wished he would go away and leave him to
get on with the assessment. The Englishman seemed puzzled.
Yashim
said, "Let us say I work for myself."
"Oh.
A freelance?"
Yashim
rolled the unfamiliar word around his tongue. A free lance? He supposed he had:
at least it was unencumbered by the plums that other men had gobbling at their
groins.
"You
are very perceptive," he said, inclining his head.
The
young man flushed. He felt certain that he was being laughed at but could not
quite understand the exchange. Perhaps he'd better just shut up for a while.
More diplomatic. He folded his arms and sat stiffly on the upholstered seat,
watching the Turk scribbling down lists.
After
a minute he said, "Jolly bad business about the Janissaries, was it?"
Yashim
looked up in surprise.
"For
the Janissaries, yes," he observed drily.
The
boy nodded vigorously, as if Yashim had just made a profound remark.
"Whew!
Yes! Rotten for them."
He
shook his head and raised his eyebrows.
"Not
much fun, being burned alive," Yashim murmured.
Pas trop amusant
.
The
boy goggled dutifully. "Not my idea of amusement, certainly!" He lowered his
head and gave a big laugh. Yashim carried on writing.
"I
say," the boy chirped up. "What do chaps do for amusement here, in Istanbul?"
He
was leaning forward now, his hands dangling between his knees, with a
screwed-up look on his face.
Yashim
narrowed his eyes. When he spoke it was almost a whisper. "Well, some men use a
dead sheep."
The
boy startled. "A sheep?"
"They
cut it and remove its--what do you say--its bladder."
The
boy's face was frozen into an expression of horror.
"One
of them, it's usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra--"
"Oh
quite. I--I see. Please, it's not what I meant."
Yashim
put on a puzzled expression.
"But
don't you play football in your country, too?"
The
boy stared at him, then sagged.
"I'm
sorry, yes, of course. I--I--" He was quite red in the face. "I think I'll just
go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me."
Yashim
gave a short smile and went back to the books.
He
had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates, but if the
figures were even roughly correct, they made for sobering reading.
How
many Janissaries had died in the events of June 1826? A thousand, possibly, at
the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt that followed--say,
five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few,
mostly of known ringleaders.
The
rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found
jobs at the Soup Makers' Guild, as Yashim knew.
Which
still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living
quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living.
Well, that would be a shock to the system.
Yashim
sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful
men.
About
fifty thousand of them, in fact.
29
****************
THE
imam winced. Could he plead another engagement? He knew that the eunuch prayed
in his mosque, but they had never spoken until today. He'd approached him after
the noon prayer and asked for a word. And the imam had inclined his head, quite
graciously, before he realized who was asking.
As
the eunuch fell into stride behind him, the imam reflected that he had no right
to withhold his sympathy, or his advice. Yet he viewed their discussion with
foreboding.
How
could a man be a good Muslim, if so many of those avenues by which a Muslim
approached his God were, so to say, already blocked? The imam considered
himself a teacher, certainly. But so much of his teaching was bound up with
considerations of family: the blessing of children, the regulation that
wanted to investigate Janissary regiments See. The Amb says Istanbul is much
duller without the Janissaries, Fizerly tells me. Not too dull for
Yr
loving bro.,
Frank
"Who
are you working for?"
Frank
Compston spoke French badly. Yashim wished he would go away and leave him to
get on with the assessment. The Englishman seemed puzzled.
Yashim
said, "Let us say I work for myself."
"Oh.
A freelance?"
Yashim
rolled the unfamiliar word around his tongue. A free lance? He supposed he had:
at least it was unencumbered by the plums that other men had gobbling at their
groins.
"You
are very perceptive," he said, inclining his head.
The
young man flushed. He felt certain that he was being laughed at but could not
quite understand the exchange. Perhaps he'd better just shut up for a while.
More diplomatic. He folded his arms and sat stiffly on the upholstered seat,
watching the Turk scribbling down lists.
After
a minute he said, "Jolly bad business about the Janissaries, was it?"
Yashim
looked up in surprise.
"For
the Janissaries, yes," he observed drily.
The
boy nodded vigorously, as if Yashim had just made a profound remark.
"Whew!
Yes! Rotten for them."
He
shook his head and raised his eyebrows.
"Not
much fun, being burned alive," Yashim murmured.
Pas trop amusant
.
The
boy goggled dutifully. "Not my idea of amusement, certainly!" He lowered his
head and gave a big laugh. Yashim carried on writing.
"I
say," the boy chirped up. "What do chaps do for amusement here, in Istanbul?"
He
was leaning forward now, his hands dangling between his knees, with a
screwed-up look on his face.
Yashim
narrowed his eyes. When he spoke it was almost a whisper. "Well, some men use a
dead sheep."
The
boy startled. "A sheep?"
"They
cut it and remove its--what do you say--its bladder."
The
boy's face was frozen into an expression of horror.
"One
of them, it's usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra--"
"Oh
quite. I--I see. Please, it's not what I meant."
Yashim
put on a puzzled expression.
"But
don't you play football in your country, too?"
The
boy stared at him, then sagged.
"I'm
sorry, yes, of course. I--I--" He was quite red in the face. "I think I'll just
go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me."
Yashim
gave a short smile and went back to the books.
He
had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates, but if the
figures were even roughly correct, they made for sobering reading.
How
many Janissaries had died in the events of June 1826? A thousand, possibly, at
the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt that followed--say,
five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few,
mostly of known ringleaders.
The
rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found
jobs at the Soup Makers' Guild, as Yashim knew.
Which
still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living
quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living.
Well, that would be a shock to the system.
Yashim
sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful
men.
About
fifty thousand of them, in fact.
29
****************
THE
imam winced. Could he plead another engagement? He knew that the eunuch prayed
in his mosque, but they had never spoken until today. He'd approached him after
the noon prayer and asked for a word. And the imam had inclined his head, quite
graciously, before he realized who was asking.
As
the eunuch fell into stride behind him, the imam reflected that he had no right
to withhold his sympathy, or his advice. Yet he viewed their discussion with
foreboding.
How
could a man be a good Muslim, if so many of those avenues by which a Muslim
approached his God were, so to say, already blocked? The imam considered
himself a teacher, certainly. But so much of his teaching was bound up with
considerations of family: the blessing of children, the regulation that
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