Ismail Kadare - The Siege

Who had said something last night about a black veil? The chronicler was tired, and his memory was getting confused.

The astrologer looked at the sky.

“What fate do the stars foretell?” the janissary asked.

Since he had taken part in the assault, the janissary had lost his shyness and he now spoke to them like old friends.

“Sad prophecies!” the astrologer answered. “Some crazy wind seems to be swirling them around all the time.”

In fact the astrologer had a migraine and a temperature, so that the stars really did seem to him to be on the point of falling out of the sky. “Do not fall, my star …” Had he not read that somewhere? He had banked heavily on this campaign. If his predictions turned out right, he would be able to see about getting a much better position, even an eminent one, on his return to the capital. Palace astrologer, why not? It was the most important campaign for years. The whole empire had its eyes on these misty mountains. He was bored with his life in the muddy backwater where he had spent the last two years going to see the portly wife of the wali every Friday to predict when the next letter from Akhashir would come. He liked the liveliness of the capital, its crowded streets, days packed full of things to do, fashion, women. Heaven may make him a gift of all that, but it could turn him down too. “Stay by me, my star …” When he had seen the burned-out ladders crashing to the foot of the ramparts he saw his own future fall. Ill-starred: all afternoon that word had been pressing like a rusty nail into his soul.

The only things that came into his mind now were curses of every kind, and it began to frighten him.

“Tuz Okçan, what did you say a moment ago? ‘May you look for the wall with your hands?’ Our curses are different. For example, we say: ‘Go cold!’”

“What’s that got to do with me?” the janissary answered. “What is this business about cursing? Why do you want to involve me in that kind of thing?”

The janissary was starting to weep. The chronicler grabbed the astrologer by the sleeve.

“Stop it,” he whispered. “Can’t you see he’s in distress?”

“Actually, he needs taking care of. Maybe even more than Sadedin does …”

During his long saunter through the camp Mevla Çelebi had heard about a special unit in the army, consisting of priestly men who were part healers and part sorcerers, and whose task it was to calm soldiers afflicted with mental disturbances after battle. In the old days they were killed, like any man who could not hold back his tears, but in the course of the last year the rules had been made less harsh.

“Yesterday evening there were four of us,” Mevla Çelebi observed thoughtfully. “Tonight we are only three.”

Cartwheels could be heard creaking not far away. It wasn’t the same sound as had been heard earlier on, when the carts were making their way towards the citadel. The lower, duller noise of the axles suggested that the carts were now fully loaded.

“Let’s go and see our dead being buried,” the chronicler said. They walked a long while in silence before they caught up with the tumbrels. Heaped-up corpses were lit by the pale rays of the moon. One of them slipped and fell to the ground. The following vehicle halted, then someone came to pick up the body and heaved it into the back.

Empty wagons passed by in the opposite direction, on their way to collect another load. Their floorboards were stained red and black by the blood. The three men looked at the ground and saw that it too was soaked in blood.

“Are you alright?” the astrologer asked the chronicler. “You’re as pale as a ghost. Do you want us to go back?”

“No! I must see the burial of our dead. I have to describe it in my chronicle.”

That was all they said to each other for the entire journey. From afar they heard the lugubrious, drawn-out murmur of hoxhas praying. As they drew nearer the voices became more distinct and drowned out the sounds of spades and picks.

When they got to the burial ground sappers had already dug out three large rectangular pits, and were working on four others. Tumbrels drew to a halt at the edge of a pit, the bodies were given a cursory inspection by a doctor, and were then thrown into their grave. The first was already full and sappers had started covering it. The hoxhas bowed again and again, casting clumps of earth into the mass grave as it was being filled in. Bodies were now being piled up in the second grave. Shirtless dervishes with bloodstained forearms grasped corpses by their hands and feet and swung them energetically over the edge. The tumbrels were emptied one by one. Horses snorted and stamped at the smell of blood, which disturbed them. Hoxhas went on reciting prayers. Now and again a doctor would have a body taken out of the heap — a survivor put among the dead by mistake.

The astrologer and Tuz Okçan glanced from time to time towards their companion to see if they were required to stay any longer. Aware of being the object of attention, at least at those moments, Çelebi took his time.

At last he turned on his heels and the others followed on behind him. They walked back over blood-soaked ground where the tumbrels were almost at a standstill. Some of them bore only one or two bodies, presumably those of officers. The torch of one of these carts had fallen on to the floor right next to the victim’s head, and the spilled oil flared up in strange forms. A distorted reflection of the dead man’s face could be seen in the smooth surface of the oil spill. Covered in hellish sweat, in glinting lamplight, the face seemed to be grappling with a cruel dilemma — to wake, or to sleep for ever.

The janissary grabbed Çelebi by the sleeve.

“That man’s going to catch fire,” he whispered. “My God! I think it’s my commander, Suleiman!”

The burning oil had in fact almost reached the man’s body, but the chronicler insisted that even if it did catch fire, it would not be a great misfortune. The ancients, he added, considered it a duty to incinerate their dead.

Tuz Okçan turned his head away so as not to have to see the spectacle. He was sure the body had begun to burn.

“What can I hear now?” the astrologer asked. “Am I having hallucinations?”

“No. The watch has been reinforced,” the janissary answered.

When they got back to the centre of the camp, the prevailing mood of anxiety seemed to have grown more intense. A few shapes moved about in the distance. Two horsemen with the insignia of the messenger corps on their tunics galloped past.

“They must be worried about Skanderbeg mounting a counterattack,” the janissary said.

“Look, there’s another guard-post that has been doubled,” the astrologer remarked. “Skanderbeg is supposed to be fearsome. Especially when he attacks in the dark.”

“Everything is more terrible in the dark,” the janissary replied.

“Our Pasha is his equal,” the chronicler interjected. “In the capital he is said to be the most brilliant war leader we have.”

“God be praised!”

To their considerable surprise they realised they were standing right next to the commander-in-chief’s tent.

“Is the war council still in session?” the astrologer asked a passing courier.

The courier did not answer at first, but when moonlight made the astrologer’s dress visible, he gave a curt “Yes”.

“May you go cold!” the astrologer swore under his breath, uncertain whether he was cursing the sentinel, himself or the entire war council. He was worried. Whatever he did he could not stop his mind going back to his protector, the Mufti. Would the Mufti support him, or would he drop him at the council meeting?

Meanwhile, the emergency meeting went on. The leaders were seated on animal skins draped over a divan. Most of them were wounded and had bandaged legs or arms. Three members of the council had fallen in the battle, and the architect, seated at the other end of the room from the Pasha, was already sketching the hexagonal turbes which by custom had to be raised over their graves. During meetings he often took pleasure in sketching and drawing.