Ismail Kadare - The Siege

The chronicler then noticed Sadedin among the throng. He was being pushed and shoved. He’d often seen him wandering around the camp with a white stick, and most times he didn’t speak to him, as he didn’t know what to say, but this time, seeing the sturdy poet being knocked about like this, he felt sorry for him.

“Do you see the blind man over there being pushed around?” he asked Sirri Selim.

“Yes.”

“That’s Sadedin, the poet. He lost his sight in the battle.”

The new astrologer still showed no interest in what Mevla was saying, and didn’t even turn to look.

“I’ll go and get him,” the chronicler said. “I can’t bear to see him being manhandled like that.”

“In his condition, why doesn’t he go back to Turkey?” Sirri Selim asked.

“He’s composing a great poem about the campaign. He wants to be here when the citadel falls,” Çelebi explained.

The chronicler went over to the poet and after a while brought him back.

“All around can be heard the feet of military men!” Sadedin declaimed in his thundering baritone. “It is an exalting sound!”

The astrologer cast a condescending glance at him.

“Many centuries ago, in Ancient Greece,” Sirri Selim said, “there was a blind poet just like you.”

Sadedin turned his blank sockets towards the doctor.

“His name was Homer, and he wrote a great epic about a garrison called Troy, which the Greeks destroyed,” Sirri Selim went on. “Two months ago, Prince Mehmet, our future Sultan, said in a speech that God had designated the Turks as the avengers of Troy.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the blind man said. “My name is Sadedin. I used to be called Nightingale Sadedin, but the nickname never was to my liking.”

“Wouldn’t you have liked to be called Sarperkan Tol-Keleç Olgunsoy?” the chronicler suggested.

“I never had a chance to bear that name,” Sadedin answered. “But this war has turned Nightingale Sadedin into Blind Sadedin. That’s what everyone calls me now.”

He swept his hand over his forehead as if trying to wave aside something that was irritating or terrifying him. When he’d finished, the chronicler saw something deathly in the gesture.

“I hear the feet of military men!” the poet said again. “We advance at night. Nothing can stand in the way of night with the crescent moon in its middle. The barren earth trembles beneath our boots.”

Sirri Selim smiled. “I like you,” he said.

Sadedin said nothing.

“Turkish blood will wet the dust of three continents,” the poet went on. “It is written that our blood should course through our soldiers’ veins no more, but should spring from their wounds until the earth is drenched with it!”

Sirri Selim frowned.

“An ocean of blood shall be spilled,” Sadedin cried hoarsely, “an ocean of fine Turkish blood.”

Sadedin then turned around abruptly and left without saying farewell. Çelebi watched him move into the distance, tottering along with the help of his stick.

“Is this execution going to happen or not?” the doctor asked.

“I don’t think it will be long now,” Çelebi said. “I just saw the chef-de-camp going by.”

Meanwhile a group of officers were noisily greeting one of their comrades who had visibly just returned from a long journey. They were gossiping excitedly, and Çelebi strained his ear to catch what they were saying.

“So, what news from the capital?” a couple of the officers asked.

“What you would expect,” the traveller replied. “The talk is all of this expedition. When people know you’ve come from Albania, the first thing they ask is whether you’ve set eyes on Skanderbeg.”

“They fail to realise that if you do set eyes on Skanderbeg, you are very likely never to set eyes on anything else!” one of them quipped.

They all laughed.

“Look, here comes the Quartermaster General and Saruxha,” Sirri Selim remarked. “They must be on their way to a session of the war council.”

The two high officials nodded a greeting without stopping, but Sirri Selim waved at them.

“Heads are going to fall. Stay a while.”

“And who is to be executed?”

“Two spies. Apparently they were trying to filch your guns’ secrets,” Sirri Selim said. Then he added in a whisper, “Do you really know nothing about this?”

“No,” Saruxha said in a rasping voice. “What’s all this spying business about?”

“Well, that’s odd!”

“Who is that man?” the Quartermaster General asked under his breath.

“The new astrologer,” Sirri Selim answered. “Just got here from Edirne.”

The Quartermaster General looked the astrologer up and down.

“Do you really not know anything about the spies?” Sirri Selim asked the gun-maker once again.

“I already told you, no,” the engineer replied.

“You’ve got a sore throat. Did you catch cold?”

“I suppose I must have.”

Voices could be heard shouting from among the crowd. “Here they come! Here they come!”

People pushed and shoved to get a better view. Cries of “Death to the spies” rose from all around.

Two men with their hands tied were dragged on to the scaffold. The executioner climbed up behind them. The two convicts were almost naked and the marks of the torture they had undergone were clearly visible on their torsos.

The Quartermaster General looked at them with some care.

“I think I’ve seen those two somewhere else.”

“Yes, they’re a pair of snoopers we sometimes saw near the foundry,” Çelebi said. “That one’s the redhead. Do you remember?”

“That’s right,” Saruxha confirmed. “It really is them.”

Men close by stretched their necks to listen in to the conversation.

“So that’s why they went there every day!” Çelebi exclaimed. “The dogs! To think we treated them as good lads who were just being curious!” The executioner and his assistant were now untying the men’s hands.

“No!” Saruxha replied. “It’s not true! Twenty years ago, I too peered over a fence to watch and admire the great Saruhanli casting cannon in his foundry. These boys aren’t spies any more than I was at their age!”

The chronicler was thunderstruck. “What, then?”

“Their thirst for knowledge, their curiosity has done for them,” Saruxha said. “Of course I could save the pair of them, but my throat hurts too much.”

The drum had stopped sounding the call to assemble.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Saruxha went on in his hoarse rasp. “Can’t you hear my voice? How can you snatch two people from the jaws of death without having to raise your voice at great length?”

“That’s true,” the Quartermaster General agreed. “And the fate of thousands hangs on your good health. You have every right to look after yourself.”

The executioner’s assistant laid the men’s heads on the block.

“Look, there’s the architect!” said Sirri Selim. “Rushing about like a whirlwind, as usual.”

Giaour dashed on past them without looking round.

“We’re going to be late,” the Quartermaster remarked.

They turned on their heels and moved away just as the executioner brought his axe down on one of the two necks. There was a movement in the crowd, and then a great roar arose.

“They’re in a hurry to get to the meeting,” Sirri Selim muttered pensively. “I bet they’ll soon summon me too.”

Çelebi didn’t dare ask the doctor what he meant by that.

The executioner raised his axe a second time. It was the carrot-haired boy’s turn. And again the crowd shifted around, and again a thunderous roar arose.

“No, they’ll surely not fail to call me in,” Sirri Selim said aloud, and then suddenly went red in the face.