The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  It was Rustem who welcomed them, courteously but coldly. Jahan dug his fingernails into his palms so as to stop from shaking in front of the Croatian who had stolen Mihrimah from him. The Grand Vizier did not notice a thing. With his tall body, cunning mind and resilient nature, he had won a great many accolades – and today it seemed likely that he would do his best to obstruct Sinan. So deep was his dislike of the migrants from Anatolia that, in order to prevent them from coming, he was willing to sacrifice the prosperity of everyone in the city.

  Upon being ushered into the Audience Chamber, they found Sultan Suleiman on his throne, which was covered in gold cloth and studded with gems. A fountain trickled in one corner, its sound breaking the silence in the room. The Lord of Worlds, wearing a robe of yellow satin with black sable, greeted Sinan warmly, though the hardness in his voice was lost on no one. He had put on bright colours for the first time in weeks. His two sons had become each other’s worst enemy, but it was the loss of Hurrem that had shattered him like nothing else. The woman to whom he had written love poems, the mother of his five children, the queen who was both hated and adored, the concubine who had climbed higher than any other harem girl, the laughing one, was gone. She had died without seeing one of her sons on the Ottoman throne.

  After prostrating themselves three times on the ground, eyes cast down, the apprentices trod behind their master, the carpet soft and lush beneath their feet. Later on, Jahan would remember the light spilling from the sconces, and the smell of the linden tree outside the window that he dared not peek at but was comforted by all the same.

  ‘Chief Royal Architect, defend your plans,’ ordered Sultan Suleiman.

  Sinan gave his apprentices a nod. They had drawn their sketches on panels of camel skin, so thin as to be transparent. Four in total. Nikola and Jahan, each taking an end, unrolled and displayed the first design. Sinan, meanwhile, gave an account of what he intended to do, pointing every now and then at some detail. Neither the Sultan nor the Grand Vizier uttered a word.

  They swiftly proceeded to the second and third drawings – aqueducts of various sizes and at various locations. The fourth – that of a warren of underground conduits that would link several sources, the plan that most excited them – Sinan put aside. Had he found a more receptive audience, he would have shown it. Now, however, instinct told him to keep it to himself. Instead, he said that, with the help of ducts, he would make the water flow to gardens, courtyards and vineyards. He said there was nothing as noble as relieving the thirst of the parched. When he finished, Sultan Suleiman hemmed and hawed for a while. Turning to the Grand Vizier, he asked his opinion.

  Rustem had been waiting for this moment. He spoke gingerly, as if what he were about to reveal caused him pain, yet he had no other choice. ‘Architect Sinan is a skilful man. He came here with a sublime idea. But I’m afraid he doesn’t understand this will only bring us trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble, Vizier?’

  ‘My Sultan, this is costly. It’ll strain the treasury.’

  When asked what he had to say to that, Sinan said, ‘There are ways to cut expenses. Where we can, we’ll choose the shortest route and use suitable materials.’

  The Grand Vizier said, ‘What will you have achieved then? More migrants! Say there is a fire – how will you put it out if you have houses planted side by side like wild mushrooms?’ Not expecting an answer, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘This city is full to bursting. We need no more.’

  A shadow crossed Sinan’s face. ‘How many will arrive is a question that can be settled by our Sultan. But the people who are here ought to have water.’

  This went on for a while. The Chief Royal Architect countered the Grand Vizier, the Grand Vizier countered the Chief Royal Architect. Finally, bored with the parley, the Sultan declared, ‘That’s enough, I’ve listened to both sides. You shall learn my decision!’

  Sinan and his apprentices, walking backwards, left the chamber. Rustem stayed behind, which Jahan thought unfair. Surely in their absence he would try to persuade the sovereign. Jahan racked his brains to try to save the situation. If one of them could spend a bit more time alone with the Sultan, without the interference of the Grand Vizier, he might be brought round. Otherwise, they stood no chance.

  That evening, enervated by the events of the day, the apprentices stayed in Sinan’s house. Jahan had hoped to discuss things, but the master, never one for idle ramblings, made them study. Exhausted, they retreated to bed following supper. It was there, as he lay on his mat, tossing and turning in the dark, that Jahan came up with a plan.

  Unable to wait till the morning, he groped his way to the other side of the room, where Nikola was sound asleep. He shook him by the shoulder.

  Jolted out of whatever dream he was having, Nikola said, ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Shh, it’s me.’

  ‘Jahan … what’s happened?’

  ‘Can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how it went today.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, even though he had been dead to the world a moment ago.

  ‘How can our Sultan reach a just decision when the Vizier is with him all the time? Master sees the Sultan only once in a while. Rustem has access to him every day.’

  ‘True, but there’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘Maybe there is. I’ve an idea,’ Jahan said. ‘There is one place where the Grand Vizier will never bother the Sultan.’

  Nikola gasped. ‘You are going to enter the harem?’

  ‘Nay, dim-witted one,’ Jahan said, chuckling despite himself. ‘There’s another place the Vizier would not accompany him. Guess!’

  ‘Ogh, I can’t,’ Nikola pleaded. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Hunting. When the Sultan goes hunting, I’ll follow him and explain our intentions. Without that nosy Vizier around, he’ll think more clearly.’

  ‘Brother, that’s a brilliant plan,’ Nikola said.

  They both knew the Grand Vizier detested the chase. Being hopelessly clumsy, he could not move at the same pace as the others, let alone track a prey up and down the hills.

  ‘This’ll be our gift to our master,’ Jahan said. ‘Don’t tell him anything yet.’

  Nikola’s voice dwindled to a whisper. ‘What if it’s dangerous?’

  ‘Why should it be? If the Sultan does not want to listen, I’ll leave.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘Better if I go alone. When I get back, I promise I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘But … be careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.’

  Despite his confidence, Jahan’s mind was a beehive the rest of the week, his nerves in shreds. He constantly rehearsed, word by word, what he would tell the Sultan. Thanks to his companions in the menagerie, he knew where the Sultan would be hunting and when. Here began the second part of his plan, which he had not shared with Nikola. He would take Chota with him. So far all his efforts to endear the animal to the Sultan had been for naught. Now, Jahan thought, both the elephant and the mahout had a chance to win him over.

  The day, at last, arrived, and the morning saw Jahan, atop the elephant, a leather bag strapped to his back, reaching the enormous Bab-i Humayun Gate in the direction of Hagia Sophia and saluting the guards.

  ‘Where are you going?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Our Sultan, refuge of the world, forgot his lucky bow. I’ve been ordered to take it to him.’

  ‘Why didn’t they send out a horseman?’ demanded a second guard.

  ‘Because elephants are faster than horses,’ Jahan said without missing a beat.

  They sniggered. The first guard said, ‘Maybe I should go to check.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll wait. If the Sultan notices he doesn’t have his lucky bow and gets upset, it won’t be my fault.’

  Chewing their moustaches, the men regarded him. Jahan’s seriousness had given them pause for thought. Then, as if linked to each other through an invisible string, they both moved aside.
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  ‘Go!’ said the second guard. ‘You’d better hurry that elephant up.’

  And so Jahan did, though not until the city was behind them. He didn’t want Chota to trample anyone. As soon as the sights and sounds of Istanbul had vanished, he ordered the elephant to run.

  They reached the pinewoods north of the city. Jahan had learned that whenever the Sultan went hunting, he would drive his prey towards the edge of a certain precipice. That’s where Jahan waited. A long time went by – or so it seemed to him. He began to worry. They might be hiding somewhere behind the bushes, for all he knew, and shoot him accidentally. He was inventing new fears when he heard the distant barking of dogs. There were half a dozen of them, drawing swiftly near.

  Then Jahan saw it – him. A stag. Out of the forest he sprang, reeling. An arrow had pierced his neck and a second one his heart. It was a miracle that he was still running.

  As Jahan got off the elephant, the stag came closer, its antlers glittering in the sunset. It was a magnificent animal – large liquid eyes, wild to the point of delirium. Disturbed by the smell of blood, Chota swung his tusks. But the stag had reached a point beyond threats. He widened his nostrils and, opening his mouth, as though he wanted to say something, collapsed.

  Jahan sprang towards him, tripping over a tree root. By the time he reached the deer, five greyhounds had appeared out of nowhere, barking with all their might. They circled the carcass, not letting him get close.

  On an impulse Jahan turned around. The Sultan, sitting astride his horse, was staring at him. Trembling, Jahan threw himself to the ground. ‘My Lord.’

  ‘What are you doing here – you and the elephant?’

  ‘This humble servant came to see you, if you’ll allow me to say a few words.’

  ‘Aren’t you my mahout?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Jahan said. Just the other day he had stood a few steps away from him, showing their designs. But apparently he had forgotten. ‘I’m also an apprentice to Master Sinan. It’s on this matter that I came to plead to your Highness.’

  While they were speaking, servants had loaded the carcass on to a cart pulled by two horses. The greyhounds, still barking their triumph, followed noisily.

  ‘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 t
hat 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.’