Ismail Kadare - The Siege

When the vituperation fell away and the yelping could be heard loud and clear, as if it was coming from just behind the tent, Ulug Bey thought his own end was nigh. He was tempted to prostrate himself before the Pasha or else to explain that as he had been incarcerated night and day in the tunnel with his sappers, he had been obliged to pay less attention to his other responsibilities. But as he was paralysed with remorse, he did neither of these things. He just lowered his eyes and waited. Perhaps it was to that posture that he owed his salvation.

“If all the graves are not covered with four cubits of earth by tomorrow morning, I shall have you buried alive. Dismissed!”

Ulug Bey bowed and went out. From the tent you could hear the sound of his steps, which were speedy to begin with, and then turned into a run.

“Sirri Selim,” the Pasha asked when the footsteps had faded into the distance, “is there really a risk of plague?”

“No, not yet, Pasha,” the doctor replied in a measured tone.

He thought he saw a gleam of scorn in the Pasha’s eyes, and, fearing that he was perhaps suspected of having raised a false alarm, he hurriedly added: “No. This evening, we still have time. If we had waited until tomorrow it might have been too late.”

The Pasha lowered his gaze. Sirri Selim took his leave, bowed low, and went out.

The Pasha stood for a while with his arms crossed. Barking and yelping could still be heard at intervals, from the same direction. Listening hard, he stared at a single spot on the kilim. It was only when the noise of the dogs suddenly ceased that he reckoned Ulug Bey and his men had reached the graves, and he sighed a deep sigh of relief. He lay down and leaned on a cushion, half closing his eyes. His weary mind ranged over the huge camp. He didn’t linger on the myriad tents, but followed the akinxhis as they marched through these horrible mountains, then wandered back to the sentries, glanced along the ramparts, returned to the lilac-blossom tent, then alighted once more on the dogs and the graves, wavered for a while before the shady entrance to the blonde girl’s vagina, then all of a sudden abandoned everything to plunge underground and crawl unseen along the dark, damp tunnel under construction. He dropped off to sleep. One of his orderlies tiptoed up to him and covered him with a soft cloak as he gazed with fearful veneration at his master’s creased and weary face.

We came to understand the significance of the flowery dresses that the soldiers had been flaunting and to realise what was hidden by the Turks’ ploy of silence. The dresses and baubles were the signal for an imminent raid by the akinxhis . Naturally, the soldiers had to be ready to purchase captive girls. As for the calm, it was a prelude to death .

Our first suspicions were aroused by the construction of what was supposed to be a bread oven bizarrely close to our ramparts. We had it watched. Carts were seen going in without interruption; smoke came out of the chimney. Trained eyes could see that despite their slow pace the carts going in were empty, while those that left were full. Similarly, observation of the smoke plume and especially of the time lag between the thickening of the smoke corresponding to the lighting of the oven and when it thins out again, which is when the baking begins, convinced our bakers that no oven in the world could work like that. It is therefore obvious that the carts do not bring in any flour and that the oven cooks no bread. But when they leave the carts are laden. What with? It can only be earth .

The Turks must be digging an underground passage, that’s certain. It’s a stratagem they often use in sieges. We lost no time and went down to check our dungeons and cellars, and posted observers in every corner. They lay flat out with their ears to the ground for nights on end. Many fell ill. Then we remembered that vessels made of beaten brass amplify underground noise. Our watchmen could thus keep their ears open for many more long nights. Sometimes the strain of concentration makes them hear banging. But at last we did spot where the besiegers were. They have already got several cubits’ length inside the perimeter of the citadel. They are digging, or rather nibbling, at the earth with some difficulty. They sound like an animal scratching itself incessantly in the bowels of the earth .

Lying on the cold flagstones with their ears to the ground, our watchmen are following the hidden advance of the enemy step by step. The Turks are now digging with such caution that they could have faded away. But they are still there. They have split the tunnel into two branches, like a two-headed snake, forever slithering forwards beneath our feet. We are listening so hard that we have a constant ringing in our ears .

The akinxhis had returned. We could hear their drums. The camp emerged from drowsiness and sprang to life. Soldiers rushed out of their tents, calling to comrades who were still reclining. Those who rushed the fastest were men who had done deals with the akinxhis for a woman or some other trophy. Some had already grabbed the flowery dresses they had bought at the army bazaar, with which they now hoped to drape their captives. As he navigated his way through the throng, Tuz Okçan regretted not having made such a purchase. At the time he had thought it was premature and might even bring misfortune, whereas now he was nervous that there would be none left to buy. On two or three occasions when he caught sight of the returning column in the distance he was tempted to rush towards the market stalls, but he held back from fear of being late and missing the akinxhi who had more or less promised to sell him a slave woman.

The crowd buzzed with excitement. Soldiers were laughing and joking, swearing and telling dirty stories. The black eunuch Hasan went by, carrying an empty pitcher in each hand. Soldiers gave each other nudges and winks as they pointed to the jugs.

“He’s going to fill them with water for them .”

“For them ?”

“Sure he is. Can’t you see the pitchers?”

“Them girls are hot! They’ll need to cool down!”

“So the poor lasses are hot, are they? What about us? Aren’t we just boiling as well?”

“We could melt steel faster than Saruxha’s furnace!”

“Shush! Someone will hear you.”

The eunuch strode among the soldiers with haughty disdain. For a while their blazing eyes followed a man who strangely reminded them of the mysteries of women. Often, on seeing him, men’s eyes would flash and their knees would go weak, but this morning, their eagerness to see the akinxhis return was so great that they paid the eunuch hardly any attention at all.

The first columns were now coming into the camp. Kurdisxhi’s big flame-red head swayed sleepily in time with his horse’s trot. As he traversed the crowd with his escort at his side, men shouted out huzzahs, but his eyes remained half-closed and, without halting or even acknowledging the salutes, he guided his horse straight to the commander-in-chief’s tent, dismounted, and went inside.

While the long columns of dust-whitened akinxhis slowly merged like a weary river into the mass of the azabs , the janissaries and other troops, in his tent Tursun Pasha snapped his long fingers as he listened superciliously to Kurdisxhi’s brief report.

“Is that all?” he asked when the soldier had finished.

“Yes, that’s all.”

The Pasha sighed deeply, and restraining himself with difficulty from aiming at the ill-healed wound at the corner of Kurdisxhi’s mouth, he spat on the ground. Kurdisxhi, as if he had guessed what was in his chief’s mind, raised his hand to wipe that part of his face.