was
appropriate to married life. He advised fathers about their sons, and sons
about their fathers. He taught men--and women-- how to conduct themselves in
marriage. Straying husbands. Jealous wives. They came to him as a judge, with
questions. It was his job to consider the questions and answer yes or no;
usually it was through questions that they reached an understanding of their
position. He guided them to the right questions: along the way they had to
examine their own conduct, in the light of the Prophet's teaching.
What
could he discuss with a creature who had no family?
They
reached his room. A divan, a low table, a pitcher on a brass tray. A few
cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was still sumptuous. Running
from the floor to shoulder height, the walls were decorated with a fabulous
treasury of Iznik tile work, centuries old, from the best period of the Iznik
kilns. The blue geometric designs seemed to have been applied only yesterday:
they shone brilliant and pure, catching the sunlight that streamed through the
windows overhead. In the corner, a black stove threw out a welcome warmth.
The
imam gestured to the divan, while he stood with his back to the stove.
The
eunuch smiled, a little nervously, and settled himself on the divan, kicking
off his sandals before tucking his feet up beneath his burnoose. Inwardly, the
imam groaned. This, he thought, was going to be difficult. He ran a fingertip
across one eyebrow.
"Speak."
His
voice rumbled: Yashim was impressed. He was used to meeting people with
something to hide, their speech marred by doubt and hesitancy, and here was a
man who could give him answers stamped with authority. To be an imam was to
live without uncertainty. For him, there would always be an answer. The truth
was palpable. Yashim envied him his security.
"I
want to know about the Karagozi," he said.
The
imam stopped polishing his eyebrow as it raised itself away from his fingertip.
"I
beg your pardon?"
Yashim
wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He said it again. "The Karagozi."
"They
are a forbidden sect," said the imam.
Not
only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. He began to get up, thanking
the imam for his clarification.
"Stay,
please. You want to know about them?" The imam had put up a hand. A discussion
about doctrine now, that was another case entirely. The imam felt a great
weight roll from his shoulders. They needn't talk about lust or sodomy or
whatever it was that eunuchs wished to talk about when they visited their imam.
Whether it was possible for a man without bollocks to enjoy the houris of
paradise.
Yashim
resumed his seat.
"The
Karagozi were prominent in the Janissary Corps," the imam remarked. "Perhaps
you know this?"
"Yes,
of course. I know that they were unorthodox, too. I want to know how."
"Sheikh
Karagoz was a mystic. This was long ago, before the Conquest, when the Ottomans
were still a nomadic people. They had a few mosques, here and there in the
towns and cities they had conquered from the Christians. But the fighters were
ghazi, holy warriors, and they were not used to living in cities. They hungered
after truth, but it was difficult for teachers and imams to stay among them. Many
of these Turkish ghazi listened to their old babas, their spiritual fathers,
who were wise men. I say wise: they were not all enlightened."
"They
were pagan?"
"Pagan,
animist, yes. Some, however, were touched by the words of the Prophet, peace be
on him. But they incorporated into their doctrines a great deal of the old
traditions, many esoteric teachings, even errors they had gathered up among the
unbelievers. You must remember that those were tumultuous times. The little
Ottoman state was growing, and many Turks were attracted to it. Every day, they
encountered new lands, new peoples, unfamiliar faiths. It was hard for them to
understand the truth."
"And
the Janissaries?"
"Sheikh
Karagoz forged the link. Imagine: the early Janissaries were young
appropriate to married life. He advised fathers about their sons, and sons
about their fathers. He taught men--and women-- how to conduct themselves in
marriage. Straying husbands. Jealous wives. They came to him as a judge, with
questions. It was his job to consider the questions and answer yes or no;
usually it was through questions that they reached an understanding of their
position. He guided them to the right questions: along the way they had to
examine their own conduct, in the light of the Prophet's teaching.
What
could he discuss with a creature who had no family?
They
reached his room. A divan, a low table, a pitcher on a brass tray. A few
cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was still sumptuous. Running
from the floor to shoulder height, the walls were decorated with a fabulous
treasury of Iznik tile work, centuries old, from the best period of the Iznik
kilns. The blue geometric designs seemed to have been applied only yesterday:
they shone brilliant and pure, catching the sunlight that streamed through the
windows overhead. In the corner, a black stove threw out a welcome warmth.
The
imam gestured to the divan, while he stood with his back to the stove.
The
eunuch smiled, a little nervously, and settled himself on the divan, kicking
off his sandals before tucking his feet up beneath his burnoose. Inwardly, the
imam groaned. This, he thought, was going to be difficult. He ran a fingertip
across one eyebrow.
"Speak."
His
voice rumbled: Yashim was impressed. He was used to meeting people with
something to hide, their speech marred by doubt and hesitancy, and here was a
man who could give him answers stamped with authority. To be an imam was to
live without uncertainty. For him, there would always be an answer. The truth
was palpable. Yashim envied him his security.
"I
want to know about the Karagozi," he said.
The
imam stopped polishing his eyebrow as it raised itself away from his fingertip.
"I
beg your pardon?"
Yashim
wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He said it again. "The Karagozi."
"They
are a forbidden sect," said the imam.
Not
only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. He began to get up, thanking
the imam for his clarification.
"Stay,
please. You want to know about them?" The imam had put up a hand. A discussion
about doctrine now, that was another case entirely. The imam felt a great
weight roll from his shoulders. They needn't talk about lust or sodomy or
whatever it was that eunuchs wished to talk about when they visited their imam.
Whether it was possible for a man without bollocks to enjoy the houris of
paradise.
Yashim
resumed his seat.
"The
Karagozi were prominent in the Janissary Corps," the imam remarked. "Perhaps
you know this?"
"Yes,
of course. I know that they were unorthodox, too. I want to know how."
"Sheikh
Karagoz was a mystic. This was long ago, before the Conquest, when the Ottomans
were still a nomadic people. They had a few mosques, here and there in the
towns and cities they had conquered from the Christians. But the fighters were
ghazi, holy warriors, and they were not used to living in cities. They hungered
after truth, but it was difficult for teachers and imams to stay among them. Many
of these Turkish ghazi listened to their old babas, their spiritual fathers,
who were wise men. I say wise: they were not all enlightened."
"They
were pagan?"
"Pagan,
animist, yes. Some, however, were touched by the words of the Prophet, peace be
on him. But they incorporated into their doctrines a great deal of the old
traditions, many esoteric teachings, even errors they had gathered up among the
unbelievers. You must remember that those were tumultuous times. The little
Ottoman state was growing, and many Turks were attracted to it. Every day, they
encountered new lands, new peoples, unfamiliar faiths. It was hard for them to
understand the truth."
"And
the Janissaries?"
"Sheikh
Karagoz forged the link. Imagine: the early Janissaries were young
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