Ismail Kadare - The Siege

“Poor lad!” the poet sighed in turn.

“So what are they like?” the janissary asked once again.

The hubbub of the camp had grown ever louder, and now they had to shout to make themselves heard.

“Well, now,” said Sadedin. “They are … They are … How can I describe them, brother? They are like clouds, and like milk … And on the surface of the milk you can see the clear black outline of a swallows’ nest … When I found myself over one, I thought I would go mad … My hands trembled as I sought out the nest … And in that state, I came beforehand … I didn’t manage anything. Janissary, you know what it means to drop your load before you’ve got to the door!”

“Will you buy one for yourself when we’ve taken the citadel?” the janissary asked.

“Sure I will. At any price. I’ve got money put aside.” (He put his hand into his tunic.) “All I ever earned from my poems.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

The poet reached for his gourd and put it to his lips.

“That’s enough,” the astrologer remonstrated. “You can’t walk straight as it is.”

Sadedin stuffed the gourd inside his tunic.

“It’s going to be quite a night when we take the citadel! A real riot! Just wait to see the orgies we’ll have! When the men have taken their pleasure they’ll swap their captives. They’ll keep them for an hour, then sell them on to buy others. The girls will go from tent to tent. There’ll be brawls. Maybe even murders! Oh, we won’t be short of fun!”

The janissary listened glumly.

They walked on further, along a path lined with azabs stretched out on the ground, in the even darker shadows thrown by the tents.

“These azabs are boring,” Sadedin said. “I can guess what they’re talking about as if I could hear them loud and clear.”

“How do you know? I wouldn’t have thought anybody could guess what goes through the mind of an azab .”

“But I do know,” Sadedin replied. “They dream of being granted a plot of land or a vineyard in the lands they conquer, then spending the rest of their days behind the plough.”

“Everyone is free to dream,” the astrologer said.

The poet was tempted to respond, but decided instead to have another swig of raki. He carried on mumbling as he made up his verses.

The crowds were getting thicker. Drums were being sounded in every quarter. Dervishes whirled and fell, prayed and screamed without respite.

“We shall teach the Sacred Koran to these accursed rebels,” a sheh was proclaiming. “On their lands which are as humped as a demon’s back, we shall raise minarets blessed by Allah! At dusk, from these high towers, the voices of our muezzins will fall on their untutored heads and take hold of their minds like hashish. We shall ensure that these infidels learn to bow towards Mecca five times a day. We shall wrap their sick and troubled skulls in the balmy turban of Islam.”

“What a fine speaker he is,” the astrologer commented.

“I want to recite a poem as well!” Sadedin declared, in a burst of passion. “I’ve got it in my head.”

He began to mumble aloud a string of incomprehensible words:

Composing a poem would cause Okçan more pain Than fighting his way through the Balkan campaign

It was hard to make any headway through the tightly packed crowds. Ragged dervishes belonging to different sects could be spotted all over the place. The Rufais had started their dance. Soldiers jostled to get a better view of them jumping up and down to the beat of the drum. It was a sinister, monotonous dance. They would squat on their heels, then rise up with a fast-paced, obsessive swaying movement, uttering loud screams that made your blood run cold. In a trance, their faces were pale and their eyes half-closed.

“It’s quite a new dance,” Sadedin explained to the janissary. “It’s spreading all over. Do you like it?”

“Yes, I do rather like it,” the janissary replied. “It gets you all excited.”

The poet took another mouthful of raki and resumed his mumbling.

They next came across a group of collectors squabbling over their business as if they were at a souk. In recent years collectors had started devoting themselves to a whole variety of objects, and, according to their speciality, they hunted for teeth, fingers, locks of hair, ears, nails and eyelashes. After a battle, they would throw themselves on the corpses of slain enemies and fill whole sacks with the items they were after and then cart them off to the cities to sell. The most sought-after objects were human ears.

They usually spent the night before a battle talking business, doing sums, and trying to forecast rising and falling prices and trends in the tastes of wealthy collectors. As they were obliged to spend long periods away from their markets in the cities, they were not always up to date on the latest fashions.

“Do you feel like a drink?” Sadedin asked the janissary.

Tuz Okçan said nothing, but took the gourd the poet held out to him, and had several swigs. All around them was turmoil, and no one noticed what they were doing.

“Where are we going?” the chronicler asked.

“Where our feet take us,” the poet answered. “Wherever.”

“Hand me the gourd.”

The poet took it out of his tunic once more. It was almost empty now.

“You’ve got a very lovely name,” he said to the janissary, moving closer to him to speak into his ear. “I’m jealous of it! Tuz Okçan! I’m fed up with my name. Everybody calls me Nightingale Sadedin, but I …”

The janissary was dumbfounded.

“When this war is over, I’m going to change my name. Do you know what I would like to be called? Sarperkan Tol-Keleç Olgunsoy! Do you like it?”

“ Sarperkan , bitter blood. Yes, I think it’s beautiful.”

A crowd had assembled somewhere on their left.

“There’s a fight,” the astrologer said. “Let’s take a look.”

They moved towards the knot of men.

“What’s going on?” Sadedin asked a janissary.

The soldier shrugged his shoulders. Seeing their unusual attire, the men let them through. Two soldiers of death were squabbling with a small group of akinxhis .

“Soldiers of death?” Tuz Okçan said. “Where are they?”

“It’s those two over there,” an azab said. “They nearly did each other in with knives.”

At the janissary college, Tuz Okçan had often heard about the famous corps of the serden geçti . Their rule was never to return from an assault except as the victors. It was the first time he had seen any.

“They are the most glorious corps of the entire army, even more glorious than the dalkiliç .”

“I think they’re pretentious,” the astrologer said.

“That’s because of the privileges they are rightfully granted as soldiers of death,” Sadedin said.

“Do they really have a rule that prevents them ever coming back from a defeat?” Tuz Okçan asked.

“They do,” Sadedin replied curtly. “If they return in defeat, then they are murdered by their own comrades … I was once present at such a bloodbath. May I never see anything like it again!”

“We’d do better to move on,” Mevla Çelebi butted in. “The fight could flare up again.”

Voices among the crowd cried out: “ Chaouch-bashi! Chaouch-bashi !”

The chef-de-camp rode up with a squad of military police in his wake.

“They’ll put them in irons,” a sapper said.

Sadedin turned round abruptly.

“Who’s the donkey who said you can arrest a serden geçti ?”

“I am,” the sapper said.

“So clod-hoppers are allowed to have an opinion, are they?”