by Bayraktar Mustafa
Pasha, commander on the Danube.
"So
you were there," Yashim suggested, "when Selim was forced off the throne, in
favor of his brother Mustafa."
"Sultan
Mustafa!" The Albanian ground out the title with scorn, and spat. "Girded with
Osman's sword, maybe, but mad like a dog. After two years the people were
thinking how to get Selim back. Bayraktar had changed his mind as well, like
all the rest of us. We were in Istanbul, at the old barracks, and for a night
we prayed for guidance, talking with the Karagozi dervishes."
"They
told you what to do?"
"We
stormed the Topkapi Palace the next day. Bayraktar ran through the gates,
crying for Selim."
"At
which point," Yashim recalled, "Mustafa ordered Selim to be strangled. Along
with his little cousin--just in case."
The
soup master bowed his head. "So it was. Sultan Mustafa wanted to be the last of
the House of Osman. Had he been the last, I think he would have survived. Whatever
else we might have been, we Janissaries were loyal to the house. But God willed
otherwise. Even though Selim was killed, the little cousin escaped alive."
Thanks
to his quick-thinking mother, Yashim reflected. At the crucial moment, with
Mustafa's men scouring the palace with their bowstrings, the crafty Frenchwoman
he now knew as the valide sultan had hidden her boy beneath a pile of dirty
laundry. Mahmut became sultan by the grace of a heap of old linen.
"You
were there?"
"I
was in the palace when they brought the boy to Bayraktar Pasha. I saw the look
on Sultan Mustafa's face: if he had seemed mad before, then--" The soup master
shrugged. "The chief mufti had no choice but to issue a fatwa deposing him. And
Mahmut became sultan.
"For
myself, I was tired of this kind of soldiering. Rebellion, fighting in the
palace, the murder of Selim." He gestured with his arm: "Back and forth, here,
there. I had enough."
The
soup master took a deep breath and blew the air through his cheeks.
"I
left the corps at the first opportunity. I was a good cook, I had friends in
Istanbul. In five years I was working for myself."
"Did
you give up your pay book, too?" Plenty of men had been on the payroll, drawing
a Janissary's wage and enjoying all the privileges of the corps without the
slightest intention of turning up for war. It was a well-known scam.
Mustafa
hesitated. "Not immediately," he admitted. "But within a few years I no longer
needed help, and I gave it in."
Yashim
doubted it but said nothing. The soup master twirled a loop of his beads in the
air and caught it again.
"You
can check the records. I ceased to be a Janissary in May 1815. It took courage.
You wouldn't understand."
Yashim
did his best. "They didn't want to let you go? Or you wanted the money?"
The
Albanian shot him a look of contempt. "Listen. I go where I want. Today is an
exception. I didn't need the money, I was doing well." Yashim blinked,
believing him. "I found it hard to break with them."
Yashim
leaned forward. "How did you do it?"
The
guild master spread his huge hands and looked at them. "I learned to trust
myself. I saw with my own eyes what had happened to the Janissaries, what they
had allowed to happen to the real tradition, the one that mattered. They no
longer served the empire."
He
looked up. "You think that's obvious? I was only waiting--many, like me, only
waiting;--for the tradition of service to come back to us. In the end, I decided
I could wait no longer. I saw that we were doomed to repeat our mistakes. You
think the Janissaries were lazy, cowardly, arrogant. The mutinies. The
interference."
The
soup master stroked his beard and narrowed his eyes at Yashim, who sat
transfixed.
"I
tell you, the men we hung upon the Janissary Tree were all too easily taken. When
we got angry, then someone fed us names, and we shouted: Kill him! Kill
so-and-so! They threw them to us. We thought it would go better after that.
"You
put coriander in the soup. Well, some people like it, some don't, some don't
even
Pasha, commander on the Danube.
"So
you were there," Yashim suggested, "when Selim was forced off the throne, in
favor of his brother Mustafa."
"Sultan
Mustafa!" The Albanian ground out the title with scorn, and spat. "Girded with
Osman's sword, maybe, but mad like a dog. After two years the people were
thinking how to get Selim back. Bayraktar had changed his mind as well, like
all the rest of us. We were in Istanbul, at the old barracks, and for a night
we prayed for guidance, talking with the Karagozi dervishes."
"They
told you what to do?"
"We
stormed the Topkapi Palace the next day. Bayraktar ran through the gates,
crying for Selim."
"At
which point," Yashim recalled, "Mustafa ordered Selim to be strangled. Along
with his little cousin--just in case."
The
soup master bowed his head. "So it was. Sultan Mustafa wanted to be the last of
the House of Osman. Had he been the last, I think he would have survived. Whatever
else we might have been, we Janissaries were loyal to the house. But God willed
otherwise. Even though Selim was killed, the little cousin escaped alive."
Thanks
to his quick-thinking mother, Yashim reflected. At the crucial moment, with
Mustafa's men scouring the palace with their bowstrings, the crafty Frenchwoman
he now knew as the valide sultan had hidden her boy beneath a pile of dirty
laundry. Mahmut became sultan by the grace of a heap of old linen.
"You
were there?"
"I
was in the palace when they brought the boy to Bayraktar Pasha. I saw the look
on Sultan Mustafa's face: if he had seemed mad before, then--" The soup master
shrugged. "The chief mufti had no choice but to issue a fatwa deposing him. And
Mahmut became sultan.
"For
myself, I was tired of this kind of soldiering. Rebellion, fighting in the
palace, the murder of Selim." He gestured with his arm: "Back and forth, here,
there. I had enough."
The
soup master took a deep breath and blew the air through his cheeks.
"I
left the corps at the first opportunity. I was a good cook, I had friends in
Istanbul. In five years I was working for myself."
"Did
you give up your pay book, too?" Plenty of men had been on the payroll, drawing
a Janissary's wage and enjoying all the privileges of the corps without the
slightest intention of turning up for war. It was a well-known scam.
Mustafa
hesitated. "Not immediately," he admitted. "But within a few years I no longer
needed help, and I gave it in."
Yashim
doubted it but said nothing. The soup master twirled a loop of his beads in the
air and caught it again.
"You
can check the records. I ceased to be a Janissary in May 1815. It took courage.
You wouldn't understand."
Yashim
did his best. "They didn't want to let you go? Or you wanted the money?"
The
Albanian shot him a look of contempt. "Listen. I go where I want. Today is an
exception. I didn't need the money, I was doing well." Yashim blinked,
believing him. "I found it hard to break with them."
Yashim
leaned forward. "How did you do it?"
The
guild master spread his huge hands and looked at them. "I learned to trust
myself. I saw with my own eyes what had happened to the Janissaries, what they
had allowed to happen to the real tradition, the one that mattered. They no
longer served the empire."
He
looked up. "You think that's obvious? I was only waiting--many, like me, only
waiting;--for the tradition of service to come back to us. In the end, I decided
I could wait no longer. I saw that we were doomed to repeat our mistakes. You
think the Janissaries were lazy, cowardly, arrogant. The mutinies. The
interference."
The
soup master stroked his beard and narrowed his eyes at Yashim, who sat
transfixed.
"I
tell you, the men we hung upon the Janissary Tree were all too easily taken. When
we got angry, then someone fed us names, and we shouted: Kill him! Kill
so-and-so! They threw them to us. We thought it would go better after that.
"You
put coriander in the soup. Well, some people like it, some don't, some don't
even
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