by Jenny White
Kamil too had a rifle in his hand, extra ammunition slung across his chest, and a pistol in its holster at his side. He bent over and checked that the knife in his boot slipped out easily. But he still hoped that the troop commander would approach the monastery first to parley or to allow them to surrender. All Kamil needed was one chance to identify himself as a representative of the sultan. Surely then they wouldn’t attack. He had set the sultan’s standard, a pole topped with the regimental insignia, high on the wall where the approaching troops could see it.
Apollo and Vera, both armed, climbed up beside Kamil and looked out over the battlements. He heard their sharp intake of breath. Elif emerged from the monastery, and Kamil noticed with a stab of apprehension that instead of a gun, she carried several knives, one tucked into her cummerbund, another in a scabbard at her side. When she turned to speak to someone, he saw the large curved knife in a scabbard on her back, where she could reach over her shoulder to draw it. Kamil’s heart beat rapidly for a few moments, and then he calmed himself and focused his mind. He accepted a cup of water from Vera and, after drinking, let a few drops spill to the earth to inaugurate this final journey. “May our path be open,” he whispered to whatever gods inhabited this wild place.
Just then he noticed a blur of motion at the gate. Sakat Ali was unlocking it and pushing it open. A moment later Elif descended upon him. Sakat Ali doubled over, clutching his right arm, and Elif and several soldiers pushed the gate shut again and locked it.
83
“WHAT?” HUSEYIN CROAKED. “Why haven’t you told me this before?” He stood up, steadying himself on the arm of the chair. It was the time of day that he usually took a restorative sleep, and he felt tired. He wondered where Feride had gone. He hadn’t seen her since she had brought him his tea that morning. Something was bothering her. Since his return, she had refused to look him in the face. He caught sight of himself in a gold-framed mirror on the wall and saw the pink scar that stretched across his cheek from his ear to the side of his nose. Did Feride find him ugly now? Too ugly to love? He felt suddenly incapable of standing and sat heavily on a chair.
Yorg Pasha was dismayed to see that he had overtaxed and upset Huseyin. Doctor Moreno had told them that although Huseyin was able to move about with a cane, his lungs were still not healed, and it wouldn’t take much for the toxins in his lungs to infect other tissues. Huseyin was not to leave the house, Doctor Moreno had impressed upon his family, and he was not to be distressed.
“Kamil still has two weeks to report back before Sultan Abdulhamid sends troops to the valley,” Yorg Pasha lied. He didn’t tell Huseyin about the reports Simon had been receiving that the entire region was preparing for an attack, or that after the recent attempt on his life the sultan had decided not to wait for Kamil’s report. The troops were on their way to the east. Yorg Pasha had sent Kamil a telegram in Trabzon warning him of the impending attack, but Kamil had inexplicably continued on to New Concord. He hoped Huseyin would know a way to help but hadn’t wanted to upset him by telling him the full extent of the danger Kamil was in.
“Get my coat,” Huseyin told a servant, “and get the carriage ready. I’m going to my office.” He rose from the chair and leaned on his cane.
“Really, Huseyin. There’s no need.” Yorg Pasha reached out a hand to stop him.
“You don’t understand. I’m the sultan’s minister for the east.”
He looked at Huseyin in surprise. “That doesn’t matter. You need to stay home and rest. Write a letter and I’ll take it to the palace.”
“Bah,” Huseyin growled, and hobbled from the room.
Yorg Pasha hurried after him. Wrapped in furs, they stepped out onto the drive, where Vali waited with the carriage. It had rained overnight and the air was chilly. Huseyin stopped for a moment and swayed, then took a breath, which Yorg Pasha could see was painful for him. Vali helped the two men, one after the other, into the carriage, which he had padded with felt against drafts.
“Is this really necessary?” Huseyin rasped, indicating the ten Albanian mounted guards following the carriage. “I’m not afraid of Vahid.”
“You should be,” Yorg Pasha told him.
84
“THE ATTACK IS ALREADY under way?” Huseyin wheezed. “Why didn’t you keep me up-to-date?”
His secretary stood before Huseyin’s mahogany desk, head bowed and hands clasped before him. “We couldn’t discover where you were, Your Excellency.”
“All right. But now I’m here, so I expect to be kept fully informed.”
“Naturally, Your Excellency.”
“Arrange for us to see Sultan Abdulhamid.” He included Yorg Pasha with a wave of his hand.
“When?”
“Now.” Huseyin tried to shout and instead began to cough. He cringed until the pain subsided.
Yorg Pasha sat silently in an armchair at the side of the room while Huseyin was briefed by his staff. Gilded high-backed chairs with gold brocade cushions rested near several tables and crowded desks, presumably for Huseyin’s secretaries. It was a well-appointed office, occupied by a man who kept on top of things. It was not what Yorg Pasha had expected of Huseyin, whom he had always considered a sharp-tongued bon vivant. He had heard good reports of him from the palace from time to time, but had never given much thought to Huseyin as a minister. It had always seemed so unlikely from the boy and then the man he thought he had known. He was pleased to have been proved wrong. He needed his competence now.
When the secretary had gone, Yorg Pasha said, “Allah protect him. Kamil is in the middle of it.”
“The rumors of massacres. Do you think they’re true?”
Yorg Pasha didn’t respond. They both knew what the Kurdish irregulars were capable of.
SULTAN ABDULHAMID was holding court in the Great Mabeyn. He was seated on a throne between gilded pillars at one end of the high-ceilinged hall. Stained glass windows with flower-shaped panes threw bouquets of light against the walls. An enormous silk carpet covered the entire floor. A crowd of officials and petitioners waited at the far end of the hall, precisely positioned by protocol according to rank. The sultan’s first secretary led Yorg Pasha and Huseyin Pasha slowly to the front of the hall, two scribes hovering at their elbows.
When the sultan saw them approach, he motioned to his vizier and stood. Those waiting fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the carpet. Huseyin remained standing, leaning forward as far as his scars would allow. Yorg Pasha simply bowed his head respectfully before the young man standing before the throne, whom he had known since he was a boy. If he knelt, Yorg Pasha thought, even two able scribes wouldn’t be able to get him to his feet again.
Accompanied by a phalanx of officials, Sultan Abdulhamid proceeded into a side room. It was equally opulent but had the advantage of privacy, if one overlooked two dozen officials and the servants whose duty it was to serve him. Vizier Köraslan waited nearby.
Sultan Abdulhamid sat in a simple high-backed chair, one Yorg Pasha knew the sultan had made himself. He had shown it to the pasha with pride on a previous visit.
“Welcome, Yorg Pasha,” the sultan said. “Please be comfortable. We are old friends.” He indicated two armchairs.
“Thank you for your kindness, Glorious Majesty.” With the assistance of the scribe, he settled himself gratefully into the chair. Huseyin sat down beside him. Yorg Pasha could hear his raspy breathing and began to worry that this outing would rekindle his illness. The poor child Feride might well lose her brother. He didn’t want her to be a widow as well.
“Huseyin Pasha, you have been missed,” the sultan said. “I’ve heard you’ve been ill. I hope your health has improved.” The sultan showed no reaction to Huseyin’s scarred face.
“I’m honored to have had some small space in your thoughts, Your Highness.”
A servant handed each man a tiny porcelain cup set in a gold slip encrusted with diamonds. As they sipped their coffee, they made obligatory small talk. Finally, when the
cups were taken away, there was a brief silence as the sultan waited for them to state the reason for their visit.
“Huseyin Pasha’s illness makes it painful for him to speak,” Yorg Pasha began. “With your permission, I would like to present his request for him. It is also my request.”
The sultan nodded assent.
“We understand that Your Highness has ordered an attack on the Choruh Valley.” The sultan didn’t respond, so Yorg Pasha continued. “Your Highness also sent a special investigator to the valley, Kamil Pasha. He’s there now. He was under the impression that no attack would take place until the end of March. We are concerned about his safety.”
The sultan turned to Huseyin. “I don’t need to justify my decisions to you, but I understand your concern about your brother-in-law. It was unavoidable, and I extend my sincerest wishes for his continued good health. What is your request?” he asked Yorg Pasha.
“We respectfully petition Your Highness to call off the attack until Kamil Pasha returns with his report.”
“You told me you had warned Kamil Pasha about the early decision,” the sultan said to Vizier Köraslan.
The vizier narrowed his eyes. “I sent a message, Your Highness. Perhaps it never reached him.”
Yorg Pasha knew he was lying. Simon’s sources would have remarked on such a telegram.
The sultan looked at his vizier’s face a moment longer than necessary. Had Sultan Abdulhamid understood that his vizier was playing a double game? Yorg Pasha wondered. To know about this distrust between the sultan and his vizier was an advantage that he might be able to use.
The sultan turned back to his guests. “You are aware that members of this Armenian Henchak group tried to kill me? Is this not the same group that set up an infidel settlement in the valley?”
“We don’t believe they’re revolutionaries, Your Highness. They’re a naïve group of socialists trying to set up a utopian community.”
The sultan interrupted him. “Even if this group had nothing to do with the attempt on my life—of which you have yet to convince me—what is to stop them from trying to annex the valley to their cause? Artvin was Ottoman territory until ten years ago, when we were forced to cede it to the Russians after my predecessor’s disastrous war. I will not let the Russians take one more blade of grass or a single stone. And I certainly won’t let the Armenians get it in their heads that they can form their own state there.” His voice rose by a notch. “It is Ottoman land, and it will remain that way. Tell me, if these so-called socialists wanted a utopia, why did they go all the way out there to the mountains on the Russian border to start their settlement? Why not set up near Smyrna or Bursa? The weather is much more suitable.”
“I understand that the Choruh Valley has certain advantages. It’s fertile and relatively unsettled, unlike the areas you mention. The settlers hoped to be welcomed there, as it is heavily Armenian and some of the settlers are of Armenian heritage. But they’re first and foremost internationalists, not nationalists. This socialism is a crackpot idea of youth, Your Highness. A candle burns only as long as its fuel, and their only sustenance is ideas. How long can that last?”
Yorg Pasha wondered suddenly if they all were dead—Kamil, Gabriel, Vera, who Simon had learned had made her way to the commune, and the headstrong Elif, who had left Feride a note saying she was stowing aboard Kamil’s ship—and whether he was to blame for encouraging them. Would it have been better to crush their dream in the palm of his hand, as he had had the power to do since Gabriel’s ship of armaments had first docked in Istanbul?
Huseyin opened his mouth to speak but managed only a painful cough.
The sultan looked at him with concern and held a handkerchief up to his mouth. “Are you well, Huseyin Pasha? Nothing contagious, I hope.”
“The pasha was injured in a fire,” Yorg Pasha explained. “His lungs.”
“I understand. May you be well.” The sultan nodded politely at Huseyin.
Huseyin tried again. “There have been reports of massacres in the east.”
There was a moment’s tense pause while Huseyin put down his cane and pulled a newspaper from his jacket. He held it out to the sultan.
Vizier Köraslan took it from Huseyin and presented it to Sultan Abdulhamid. “What is this?” the sultan asked without looking at it.
“The Times of London,” Huseyin said. “The headline is OTTOMANS SLAUGHTER ARMENIANS IN EAST.
The sultan lifted the paper and looked at the front page. They watched his face move from curiosity to rage as he read. Finally the sultan laid the newspaper in his lap and turned to his vizier. “You knew about this.” His voice was low and deadly as a blade.
Vizier Köraslan blanched. “These are lies, Your Highness, fabricated by foreigners. I didn’t want to distress you needlessly.”
Yorg Pasha knew that the sultan was extremely sensitive to any foreign criticism.
“Who fed them these lies?” The sultan’s voice rose. “How can they know about this so soon?”
“The Armenians in Istanbul are well connected abroad,” the vizier said in a tone full of innuendo, seizing the opportunity to deflect blame. “All it takes is one telegram and a photographer, and the Europeans are on our backs.”
“This attack on Christians, whether true or not, will give the British and Russians the opening they’re waiting for. They’ll send troops into the heart of the empire on the pretext of protecting the minorities,” Huseyin told the sultan. “There’s still time to stop this before it spirals out of control.” Huseyin’s voice was so weakened from exertion that the sultan had to lean forward to hear him.
“Where was your advice earlier, Huseyin Pasha?” Sultan Abdulhamid replied scornfully, although there was a tinge of compassion in his voice for his unfortunate adviser. “It’s too late now. The cow is out of the shed.”
“We can still save the shed, Your Highness,” Yorg Pasha broke in, bringing a humorless smile to the sultan’s lips.
Sultan Abdulhamid rose from his seat and went over to the window, where he stared out at the bright day, the newspaper dangling from his hand behind his back. No one in the room moved or spoke.
When Sultan Abdulhamid turned around, his face was in shadow. “Call it off,” he told his vizier. He threw the newspaper at him. It fluttered to the floor between them, and Vizier Köraslan crouched to retrieve it.
FERIDE RECEIVED the news that Huseyin had gone to the palace with trepidation about his health but also relief. It signaled the return of his self-confidence and an end to her pity. She could think about what she meant to do next in this marriage. She went to her dressing room and found the ruby and silver hairpin Huseyin had given her. She put on the red velvet gown she knew Huseyin liked, then had her maid arrange her hair and draped a light silk veil across it, held coquettishly in place by the ruby pin. She called for a glass of wine, then took a book Doctor Moreno had given her about hospital administration to her private chamber to wait for Huseyin’s return.
85
THIRTY PROFESSIONAL SOLDIERS, thirty-seven comrades, and fifteen local men manned the battlements against a seemingly endless mass of mounted tribesmen forming and re-forming outside the walls. Kamil examined them through his field glasses. The Kurds rode tough, spindly-legged horses that seemed too small to carry the weight of the men astride them but were agile and fiery. Above the men’s long mustaches, they wore turbans of tasseled cloth and fur hats. Bandoliers of ammunition crossed their chests, and their sashes bristled with daggers.
Suddenly the Kurds drew up and shouted among themselves, pointing at the regimental standard of Kamil’s imperial troops atop the wall. Then they wheeled about and galloped some distance away to a clearing by the forest. Kamil adjusted his field glasses. The horses clustered around two mounted men arguing. One of them, a Kurd, gesticulated angrily. The other was hidden by the mass of riders. After a few minutes, to Kamil’s bafflement, the Kurds turned and resumed their attack. Kamil kept his field glasses trained on the place wher
e he had seen the argument occur, but by the time his line of vision cleared, the second man was no longer there. Before he could scour the countryside more closely, a bullet smacked into the stone beside him and he ducked for cover. They were under attack.
Kamil ordered the men and women on the monastery wall to fire only when the enemy was so close they could see their mustaches and not simply to spray the ground with bullets. Kamil sensed that the troops were playing with them. They would storm in like a wave on the shore, fire at the battlements, then retreat. He could hear them laughing and joking among themselves in their own language. Kamil could see the effect of their own efforts as a man here and there fell from his horse, but it was as ineffectual as shooting at a swarm of gnats.
A bullet grazed Apollo’s shoulder, but he insisted on remaining at his post. Victor had set up a medical station in a corner of the courtyard near the well, but at the moment he too was on the walkway that circled the top of the wall, crouched behind a piece of masonry with his rifle pointed at the men circling on their horses just out of range.
Kamil pointed. “They’re lighting torches.”
“The walls are stone and the roof is tile, so we should be all right,” Apollo told him, “although some of the windows are sealed with clay and straw.”
Kamil shouted to the men to aim at anyone carrying a torch before the rider came into throwing range. The torches that made it over the wall were immediately doused with water.
Victor ran back and forth, his left arm, which had been wounded while hunting, held stiffly by his side, sweat streaming from his face, as one after another of the defenders fell. Apollo was hit again in the shoulder. After the wound was bound up, he returned to his post, his face crumpling with pain at each retort of his rifle.
