Ismail Kadare - The Siege

Night had fallen.

The astrologer wandered around the camp for quite a while without encountering any familiar figure. It was a huge camp, and there was little likelihood he would bump into anyone he knew just by chance. In addition, so many paths had been hastily laid out in identical fashion as to make finding the tent of a friend, even one you had been to before, quite a challenge. All the same he was bursting to meet someone to whom he could tell “the latest news from the pavilion”. But as if on purpose, nobody came into sight. All the tents were the same. Only officers’ tents were distinguished by little pennants stitched over the door indicating their inhabitants’ rank. Even the faces that he made out by the light of torches lit inside the tents, whenever he put his head through the flap, seemed interchangeable.

He heard someone calling him. It was the poet Sadedin, who was coming towards him. The astrologer was delighted.

“Where are you going?” Sadedin asked.

“I was walking around in the hope of finding a friend. Where have you all been hiding?”

As the poet opened his mouth to reply the astrologer smelled a heavy odour of raki.

“So, have you heard?” Sadedin asked. “The attack is for tomorrow! At last! Thank goodness!”

The astrologer was dumbfounded.

“But how do you know?”

“Everyone knows. Are you out of the loop?”

“Me?” the astrologer said with a touch of pique. “I was the first to know! I was in the Pasha’s tent when the decision was made. In fact, I actually knew it beforehand … from the stars!”

“Mm …” Sadedin replied.

“In the pavilion, things almost got out of hand …”

“I’ve got a gourd,” the poet interrupted. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

Coming from anyone else, such familiarity would have offended the astrologer. But he felt quite disarmed by Sadedin.

“People will see us.”

“So what? It’s party night.”

The astrologer grabbed the gourd from the poet’s hand, turned around so his face would not be seen by passers-by, and took a few swigs.

Somewhere in the distance a drum sounded. Then another.

“They’ve started the drumming. The news has got around,” the astrologer observed.

“I told you so.”

Now drumming could be heard in every quarter. Soldiers came out of their tents in groups. Great fires were being lit all over the camp.

“It’s going to be a wild night!” the poet said.

They crossed the centre of the camp, then turned right at the point where the janissaries had laid out their tents. One of them walked past, stopped, turned around to follow them for a few paces, and then grabbed the poet by his sleeve.

The poet turned round, thinking he had been accosted by one of his friends, but before he could get over his surprise, the janissary hissed:

“Brother, spare me a drink, you’ve still got a drop left in the bottom.”

The poet arched his eyebrows.

“How do you know I’ve got raki on me?”

“The smell of your breath, brother,” the janissary replied. “But don’t be afraid, a janissary never rats on anyone.”

“You’re an odd kind of janissary!” the poet exclaimed, and put his hand inside his tunic.

“Wait. Don’t get it out until we can’t be seen.”

“What’s your name?” the poet asked.

“Tuz Okçan!”

“That’s a fine name, a real soldier’s name!”

Once he had made sure no one could see them, the poet handed his gourd to the stranger.

Sadedin took a swig too, and passed it on to the astrologer. Then the three of them walked on through the growing tumult.

The moon appeared in a cleft between the mountains, like the yellowish face of a wild beast keeping watch on what was going on down on the valley floor. It spilled its cold light over thousands of white tents.

“Mevla Çelebi!” the poet suddenly cried out.

He had seen the chronicler from afar.

“Are you out for a walk?” the latter asked.

“Yes, we’re having a stroll,” Sadedin said. “May I introduce Tuz Okçan, a valiant young janissary whose acquaintance we have just made.” Then he turned towards the soldier. “Mevla Çelebi, a scholar and historian by trade. As for me, I’m called Sadedin, I’m a poet, and my friend here is the army’s astrologer. That’s to say, he gets the stars to talk to him.”

The janissary was aghast at finding himself in the company of such important people.

“Where did you find the raki?” Çelebi enquired.

“I’ve got my own,” Sadedin said, putting his hand inside his tunic. “Here you are, have some yourself.”

“Wait a moment,” the chronicler said. “Let’s get behind a corner.”

“Well, I prefer to drink as I walk,” Sadedin said.

Çelebi turned to the astrologer and asked, “Were you at the war council meeting?”

Delighted to be able to show off his inside information, the astrologer started whispering. The poet and the janissary walked on a little ahead of the pair.

Almost the entire plain was now bathed in moonlight. It shone down on turbaned hoxhas scuttling in all directions with Korans in their hands. The dervishes were getting ready for their dance.

The drums went on beating.

“Haven’t you finished your tittle-tattle yet?” the poet asked as he turned round to face his two companions. “So, what do you say? Time for a drink?”

“Does he really talk to the stars?” the janissary asked with awe, nodding towards the astrologer.

“So it seems,” Sadedin replied.

The janissary looked out of the corner of his eye at the three stars engraved on the brass plate the astrologer wore around his neck.

A little further on they stepped out of the main path once again and handed round the gourd. The raki made them merrier. The poet had his arm around the janissary’s shoulder and was calling him “my brother soldier” now. At the bonfire sites hoxhas were reciting suras from the Koran. Soldiers sat in an arc around them and listened. Further on, there were shehs and old soldiers making heated speeches in voices so impassioned that they almost drowned out the sound of the drums.

“Look at their flag at the top of the main tower,” one of the shehs yelled, pointing to the fortress. “Look at it! You can almost see it shaking with fear!”

The soldiers turned their heads in the direction suggested. Although the emblem was very far away and looked quite pale in the moonlight, they really did think they could see it quivering. They had seen so many pennants waving in the wind these last weeks and months that they often saw flags in their dreams.

“Our flags tremble too,” someone said in the ill-lit night.

The sheh glanced ferociously towards where the voice had come from.

“Indeed they do!” he thundered. “Our flags tremble with impatience as they wait for the start of combat, just as lions’ manes quiver before the attack!”

They went on their way and the poet carried on muttering between his teeth. Apparently he was composing a verse. The janissary gaped at him. He’d never seen a poet before, and even less a poet in the process of composition.

“Have you ever seen any Albanian girls?” Sadedin suddenly asked the janissary.

“No, but I’ve heard speak about them.”

“What extraordinary girls they are!” Sadedin said, striking his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I can tell you about them. I’ve seen them.”

“So what are they like?” Tuz Okçan asked.

“Ah! I was forgetting you are a janissary. I pity you. The Sultan has granted you many privileges, but what good are they if the pleasure of women is forbidden to you?”

“That’s true,” Tuz Okçan sighed.