Pasha's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  SKIOUROS approached the gate of the Eski Sarayi with faltering step and thundering heart. Despite its name, the ‘old palace’ was in fact a mere four decades old, the sultans only living there for a few years before building the new palace on the headland. Since then, the old palace had housed members of the imperial family when necessary, foreign dignitaries during their visits, or just otherwise lay empty and dormant. Now, it housed Şehzade Korkut, son of Beyazid the Second and governor of Manisa in the sanjak of Sarahun.

  The young Greek’s eyes slid right, his head remaining immobile and locked on his destination. Off to the side loomed the large brooding block that was the headquarters of the janissaries in the city. Several of their number stood in guard positions around the periphery of the building and a number of flinty eyes watched him with distaste as he passed.

  Skiouros tried not to feel self-conscious in his uniform, once more cursing Dragi and his companions for their choice of guise. As if entering the city’s main prison masquerading as a naval officer had not been enough, their choice of pretence to get him into the old palace was almost heart-stopping in its boldness.

  His head felt warm and sweaty under the red skull cap with its flowing tail, his green shirt cut so low that his chest was open to the air, plucked clean of golden hair that morning by a comely Romani girl with all the gentle medical touch of a cavalry charge on packed earth. After all, his sea-and-sun bleached hair might raise comment among the almost universally dark-haired populace otherwise. Fortunately between the red tail of his hat and the long sleeves of his shirt, the tattoos he bore were almost entirely concealed. He must finish the tattoo soon, when this was all over. But how? Not with a symbol for his brother’s avenged spirit as planned, for that vengeance had turned out to be a hollow, pointless and inhuman thing. But the space needed to be filled, appropriately in some way. Seven more days and he would have time to think…

  His footsteps took him inexorably on to the old palace gates.

  The voluminous blue muslin trousers were a delight to wear, and the light, soft calf-skin shoes were tremendously comfortable. But it was what these clothes meant that chilled him. That he was one of the Bostancı – the corps of gardeners. And each of that five thousand strong group was knowledgeable and trained in the growing, tending and pruning of the many elegant gardens of the Imperial city. But their horticultural positions in the grounds of the palaces and imperial buildings belied their other purpose. The low cut shirt that displayed the wearer’s muscular form and reminded all of their strength. The soft shoes that allowed them to move almost silent and unnoticed. The blood-red skull cap with its clear connotations.

  For the corps of gardeners also formed a sultanic guard that doubled as the court’s executioners. He wondered briefly, with a chill, whether the shirt and skull cap he wore had belonged to Lazari, the little man they had accompanied to the Yedikule, and whether he was still alive, hunted but healthy.

  Of course, not all professional gardeners in the city were members of the Bostancı corps, but the majority that were assigned to the imperial gardens would be, so there was little doubt as to what role Skiouros was to play. The old Romani elder had assured him that ninety nine days in every hundred, the corps of gardeners performed their very mundane tasks. And then on rare occasions when someone displeased the sultan or his court, they might be called upon instead to prune the population of the palace. Somehow the odds were not encouraging, regardless.

  The fact remained that, shaved, Skiouros could easily pass for a Turk, or certainly for one of the Devsirme recruits, anyway. And his Turkish language was quite reasonable, especially if he adopted a distant Balkan accent to help cover any slips. And while he knew little of gardening, if he was called on to do something distasteful, for all he might loathe doing it, he felt sure he was at least capable. He could probably get by in this role. And, as Dragi had taken pains to point out, no one bothered the Bostancı. While they were trimming shrubs they were of little interest, and any time they stopped gardening, it was wise to give them an extremely wide berth. With any luck he would be the perfect combination of tedious and dangerous to keep curiosity at bay.

  The gate to the palace was manned by two soldiers in the mismatched armour and kit of the Anatolian Ghazi forces. Korkut’s men, with no allegiance to the city and probably no experience of the Bostancı. Consequently, they eyed him with suspicion. Wonderful, damn it!

  Approaching the gate and adjusting the positioning of his kit bag on his shoulder, Skiouros threw out at the pair a terse ‘Iyi günler’ – a good day that he hoped sounded aloof and superior. For all their hardness and suspicion, these men were, after all, low-paid mercenary soldiers from the borderlands, not trained imperial staff like the corps. Just as he’d hoped, the seniority with which he inflected the words shed all the confidence from the two guards like water from an oilskin, and they exchanged an uncertain glance before clearing their throats and replying to his greeting in a respectful tone.

  ‘Hacı Sincabı bin Husnü, corps of Bostancı, assigned to the Eski Sarayi. Could you direct me to the head gardener?’

  One of the men opened his mouth to request his papers, but before he could speak, Skiouros whipped a roll of paper tied with a ribbon from his belt and thrust it forcefully at the man. More could often be said with attitude than with words, and his every movement spoke of a clear seniority over these mercenaries. The ghazi scanned the documentation that had arrived that morning from the Yedikule records office, and sighed, nodding at his companion, who unlocked the palace’s gate and began to swing the wide, decorative timber portal open. The first man carefully tied the ribbon once more and passed the orders back to Skiouros, who nodded. His pseudonym had been carefully chosen to allow for ease of recognition as well as to convey the best possible connotations. Hacı indicated that he was one of the faithful and had taken the pilgrimage to Mecca, marking him as a man to trust. Husnü, a name meaning excellence and goodness, carried something that augmented his position in the corps. And Sincabı? Unusual, for sure, but something Skiouros would automatically react to when spoken. For his own unconventional Greek name – Skiouros – meant squirrel. And his brother Lykaion had spent much of their first few years in the city calling him Sincabı – the Turkish equivalent – simply to rile him. He would not forget to react to the name.

  ‘Take the path immediately to the right beyond the gate and follow it to the ivory pavilion. The head gardener will be there.’

  Skiouros nodded his appreciation and stepped through the gate inside the high walls that surrounded the old palace. That the place should require the attention of the Bostancı corps was no surprise. The palace itself was not over-large, but was ornate and graceful, rising two storeys high above the lower wall that separated the imperial residence from the wide, beautiful garden that surrounded it, itself enclosed in a high defensive wall. An orchard lay off to one side, and numerous small pavilions, gazebos, kiosks, summer houses and sheds lay scattered about the place, their locations carefully chosen to fit perfectly in the scheme of the glorious whole.

  The grounds were curiously devoid of people. Probably in the days when the sultan’s court had been in residence nobles and functionaries would have inhabited every arbor and strolled every path. Now, with only Şehzade Korkut and his small travelling court present, there was little reason to exit the palace proper and stroll the beautiful grounds.

  The ivory pavilion was not difficult to identify or locate, rising directly ahead at the end of the white gravel path, its glory reflected in a calm pool of green-veined marble and porphyry, the surface only disturbed by the occasional activity of the ornamental fish that lived within. The pavilion itself was beautiful enough to be counted a palace in its own right. Skiouros wondered whether possibly the head gardener might have the better residence than his master, in truth.

  Skirting the pool, he spotted a man in attire matching his own, raking a white gravel-chip path flat with the care of a craftsman. The large lopping-knife sheat
hed at his belt would go through all but thick branches, and Skiouros wondered how many necks it had bitten into in its time. He tried not to imagine it being his own neck. He failed.

  Biting his cheek, he nodded professionally to his counterpart with the rake, hoping the gesture would seem fitting – he had no idea of the proper etiquette within the corps. His only experience thus far with the gardeners was Lazari, and the little man who worked at the Yedikule prison was clearly truly atypical of his corps. To his great relief, the other gardener nodded back, never taking his attention from the careful patterns he raked into the path.

  A moment later, Skiouros approached the entrance to the ivory pavilion, the doors wide open, allowing the spring breeze to refresh the otherwise stifling interior. The whole building was glorious, high-roofed and carved with ornate work, the walls inlaid with tiles of five colours in complex geometric patterns. Several doorways led off, twin staircases decorated with requisitioned Byzantine stone lions rising to the next floor, and a large window at the far end of this grand vestibule which cast ample light into the room.

  At the centre of the hall stood a large circular table, curiously devoid of chairs, and a small group of men in the Bostancı uniform clustered around it. As Skiouros crossed the threshold and the soft slap of his shoes on the marble echoed around the room, the small knot looked up. One man wearing a taller, cylindrical red hat and with some sort of decorative work in gold on his green shirt stood at the centre, and Skiouros decided that this must be the head gardener. With the tense pressure under which he suddenly found himself, he felt the sweat break out in both scalp and armpits, as well as beneath the kit bag that rested against his back.

  Hoping his luck would hold, he crossed halfway to the table, upon which he now saw a scale model of the palace and its grounds, and then stopped, bowing respectfully. There was a moment’s silence, and then a pinched nasal voice said ‘who are you?’

  The Greek straightened and produced his paperwork.

  ‘Good day, sir. I have been re-assigned from the Kabataş pleasure garden to the Eski Sarayi to replace your injured staff.’ He held his breath, hoping he was right. The Romani elder had informed him that one of the palace gardeners had met with an unfortunate accident two evenings earlier and would be out of action for some time. The way he’d said it had left Skiouros in little doubt as to the cause of said accident, but the fact remained that the move had opened up a position in the palace staff – in just the right place, the old man had smiled.

  The head Bostancı narrowed his eyes for a moment as he appraised Skiouros, and the Greek found himself self-consciously twisting a fraction to one side to help hide any possible fragments of his tattoos that might be showing between the cap-tail and the shirt. Pressed recruits to the imperial armies were traditionally tattooed, and possibly so were the Bostancı, but it would be difficult to explain the strange tribal designs of the western isles he had visited. Finally the man nodded and gestured to one of his men.

  ‘Good. Give your orders to Iskender here. You were at Kabataş, you say?’

  Skiouros nodded as he approached and passed his papers to the indicated man. ‘I was, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then you should be more than competent and we won’t have to retrain you. You will take on all the duties of the man you replace, which include maintenance of the small vineyard, the arbor-maze, the Fatih flower garden and the half-moon pool. You can ignore all the water distribution system as it has its own maintenance staff. You can stow your gear in the half-moon kiosk, which is where you will be staying. I assume you are happy to begin work without further instruction?’

  Skiouros nodded.

  ‘Good. An evening meal for the entire staff is held in the long belvedere at sunset. Other than that you will find the kitchens in the same structure and other meals are your own affair. Do you need directing to your gardens?’

  Skiouros thanked God for his observant nature, for he had spotted an ornate pool in the shape of a crescent between two hedges on the way from the gate, and behind it had been a small, grey kiosk.

  ‘I believe I know the way.’

  The head gardener seemed happy with this and nodded, waving him away dismissively before he returned to his briefing, pointing out parts of the grounds that needed extra work to his men. Skiouros heaved a hidden sigh of relief as he bowed, turned and left the pavilion.

  A few minutes later he was veering off the path and heading for the secluded pool. The vineyard lay off to one side in neat, ordered rows that had been recently invaded by weeds and undergrowth, and the flower gardens were equally evident on the other. He was sure he would find the arbor-maze in due course. First thing was first: dump his kit and urinate. His bladder had been threatening to give way during his nervous time so far in the palace grounds.

  As he approached the kiosk, which was large enough to hold only two reasonable-sized rooms, and was fairly plain and unadorned, he smiled with relief. Climbing the steps and taking in his surroundings, he realised that the Romani elder had not been exaggerating when he’d said ‘in just the right place’. With the perfect planning of these formal grounds, the view from the kiosk was channelled by the gardens. Between two perfect box hedges he could see the front gate of the inner palace wall with its ghazi attendants. Between a narrow arcade of cypress trees, he could see the main gate in the outer wall, now shut once more. Between two rows of vines, he could just make out the ornamental pool that sat before the head gardener’s pavilion, and best of all, the half-moon kiosk itself butted up against the exterior wall, utilising the high defensive perimeter as its rear wall.

  His smile widened as he opened the doors to the stifled, warm and musty kiosk. The chamber that occupied the left side of the structure was a large store room, potting shed and workshop, and was lit by windows that faced the gardens for which he was responsible, but also by a small window in the perimeter wall with a view of the janissary barracks nearby. A side door stood open and he wandered through, still smiling. This small apartment was comfortable enough and reasonably appointed, with a window that looked out across the flower beds to the main gate again. Once more, a window in the outer defences gave him a pleasant view across the square including the approach to the palace gates. He could not have asked for a better place to observe everything that went on in this place.

  With a sigh of relief, he cast his kit bag to the floor and dropped onto the bed. There would be a compost heap somewhere nearby he could urinate into in a few minutes. Then he would survey his new domain. He might be here for a few days – the fewer the better, but he was under no illusion how difficult his task might be. He would familiarise himself with everything this afternoon, then speak carefully to a few other lower gardeners tonight at the meal, to learn more about the palace and its occupants. Then, as he retired for the night, he could try and formulate a plan of action.

  *

  Parmenio and Diego sat beneath the eaves of a voluminous tree in the garden of a disused house that had been built upon a terrace which had once been a part of the Byzantine palace. The sun was now a deep orange glow silhouetting the hill to their left and the Tekfur palace atop it.

  ‘I find myself pondering on how our young Greek is doing,’ Diego sighed, knocking dried mud from the sole of his boot on a piece of ancient carved stone. ‘I had assumed back in Crete that his using of me as a distraction and his insane theft from a church was some sort of crazed aberration. And now I am… fascinated… to discover that that sort of thing is, in fact, the norm for him. Do you think he is safe?’

  ‘He’s a resourceful fellow, Diego. Don’t worry about him.’ But Parmenio’s expression suggested that he was having trouble following his own advice.

  ‘Hello,’ the Spaniard said, sitting up straight and pointing. ‘We have movement.’

  Parmenio, smiling at how quickly his new friend’s Greek was becoming natural and easy-flowing with constant usage, followed the pointing finger. Two silhouetted figures were moving along the city walls from the s
outh towards the Romani house where Dragi sat deep in discussion with his own people. From their vantage point, the two watchers looked from the twin figures to the shadow of the ancient tower, where another two had been observing the Romani house for the entire afternoon. There were always two on watch, the friends had soon discovered, and the pairs changed every eight hours, three times a day, just like a professional guard unit. Sometimes the relief came from the south, sometimes the north, and sometimes one from each.

  The two friends sat silently, watching as the two pairs converged on the walls. Diego had initially wondered how their opposition had managed to gain position on the city walls, but it turned out on investigation that the defences were only manned in times of emergency or danger. Other than that only the city gates and the towers near the ports were staffed, and so their opposition had relatively free access to the walls.

  The four men held a brief discussion in that shadowy observation point, and then the two who had finished a shift departed. One, who they had identified from his clothing and manner as Romani, turned and climbed to the south, while the other, who they could not identify due to his hooded cloak, descended the walls north towards the Golden Horn.

  ‘North or south?’ Parmenio asked, reaching to his purse to flip a coin.

  ‘We’ve waited long enough. There’s two of us so let’s do both. I’ll take the cloaked one.’

  Parmenio blinked, and then broke into a grin. ‘Be careful then. See you at the Jew’s house.’

  Diego nodded, clasped his hand, and was gone in the patter of expensive boots on cobble.

  Parmenio watched his friend go, still grinning, then fixed on the shape of the tired Romani leaving his post. This morning, the captain and the Spaniard had followed the line of the city walls uphill and down, checking where to walk in order to maintain the best view. Accordingly, he kept to the streets where he had at least an intermittent view of the walls, making sure he could still see the figure each time they emerged from behind houses.