Ismail Kadare - The Siege

The water had now flooded the pit and a puddle had appeared in the field. But the parched earth drank it in and the puddle did not grow any larger. Mud-covered sappers were busy all around it among their tools, the dead horse and the corpses of the soldiers who had been killed and who didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

Mission accomplished. Tursun Pasha turned around. Before leaving, he called out to the Alaybey, “Tonight, let there be feasting!”

His deputies followed in his wake.

“I don’t think the siege will last much longer now,” Saruxha said. “A pity, because we won’t have a chance of testing our third cannon.”

“I think you will,” the Quartermaster General replied. “And you’ll have time to test number four as well, if you intend to cast it.”

“How can that be? They’ve no more water. They won’t be able to hold out for more than a week.”

“I don’t know why, but I doubt that,” the Quartermaster went on.

“Well, you’ve given me some comfort, at least,” Saruxha said. “When I heard them shout ‘Water!’ just now, I thought I’d lost my third cannon already.”

“Are the moulds ready?”

“Yes, almost.”

They were wending their way through muddle and mayhem. Orders and cries could be heard all around: “Keep away from the pit!” “You’ll be shot at from the battlements!” “Keep away from the fence!” Sappers were bringing in the dead on stretchers. A larger group was coming in behind them — azabs hauling a stone-barrow, on which they had laid the dead horse. Soldiers stood aside to make way for the barrow and craned their necks to get a better view of the dead animal with its mud-spattered mane hanging over the side.

“She’ll be buried with full military honours, like the captain of the sappers,” someone said.

“They were right to say it was a sacred beast.”

“She’ll have a turbes . I heard the Pasha giving the order.”

“A mausoleum? That’s only fair. She deserves one.”

“Who’s going to be appointed to lead the sappers now?” a young janissary officer asked.

“Who knows? He’s the second one to fall. The poor lad hardly had any time to enjoy his job. He was in post for only three hours. Maybe his successor will have better luck!”

The Quartermaster caught sight of the architect a few paces ahead of him, walking alone, save for his bodyguard. Two young janissary officers also noticed him and burst out laughing.

“Maybe he knows a lot, but an old nag knows more than he does,” one of them said. “People like that are just leeches on the state. They’re all the same! They get themselves paid sacks of gold for doing bugger all.”

“They don’t fool the high command, actually. They’re taken on because they’re the best of a bad bunch.”

“Did you hear that?” one of the janissaries asked with a smirk. “The architect lost out to a knackered horse!”

The men guffawed. One of them turned round, but on catching sight of the Quartermaster and Saruxha, he whispered something to his comrades, and they all stopped laughing. Surprised at the sudden wave of silence, one of the officers also turned round, and guessed the reason for it. It was not to his taste. Wishing to show that a janissary is not afraid of speaking his mind, even to officials, however elevated their rank, he puffed up his chest and said at the top of his voice:

“Indeed, a horse may well be able to do things that a scholar can’t!”

Some of the janissaries grinned hesitantly.

The Quartermaster General went pale.

“Officer! Say that one more time, will you?” he cried out in fury. “Go on!”

“I was not talking about you, sir,” the officer said with hauteur.

“Lout! Boor! Stand still!”

The officer stopped walking and stared insolently at the Quartermaster General. The other officer and the men also came to a halt. The architect turned round and looked on at the scene impassively.

“Are you talking to me?” the officer sneered.

“Yes, I am,” the Quartermaster General said as he came up close. “And here is my answer!” He slapped the young man in the face with his leather fan.

The officer reached for his sabre, but the Quartermaster’s bodyguard leaped forwards as quick as a cat, and put his dirk between his master and the janissary. Saruxha’s bodyguard had also drawn his dagger. A muffled hum arose from the crowd that had assembled, for they had all seen the insignia sewn on to the long tunics worn by the Quartermaster and the master caster.

“Disarm this man!” the Quartermaster ordered.

The two guards manhandled the officer and took away his sword. The janissary looked all around as if he was seeking help. But the only response the crowd gave was another wave of muttering. The guards, with their arms in hand, awaiting orders, looked to their masters, and everyone realised that the fate of the bold officer now hung on the lips of the two imperial dignitaries.

“Off to prison with him!” the Quartermaster said. Seeing a high-ranking officer in the crowd, he called out to him: “Put this scoundrel under lock and key!”

The officer nodded agreement, and ordered two foot-soldiers to take the janissary off to jail.

“You did very well,” Saruxha said when they had moved on a few yards. “But maybe we should have told our guards to execute the man on the spot.”

“It comes to the same thing,” the Quartermaster replied. “The court martial will sentence him to death.”

“How ignorant can you get!”

“He interrupted us as we were talking most agreeably. But what were we talking about? Supplies, I believe … Alright. Let’s have a glass of syrup in my tent, there’s going to be lots of noise and I can’t bear that sort of thing.”

Saruxha accepted the invitation.

The feast had already started. Night was falling, and the drums had begun to roll in every corner of the camp. Soldiers flocked to where they thought the best entertainment would be. The Quartermaster and Saruxha almost collided with half-drunk azabs many times. Dervishes were trying to make a space where they could start dancing.

As they passed in front of the Pasha’s pavilion, they heard the delicate and velvety sound of cymbals, so different from the brutal roll of drums.

“A woman’s hand,” the Quartermaster said as he slowed his pace.

“Yes, it surely is.”

The lilac pavilion was more brightly lit than usual. For a second, their eyes gleamed with yearning for the magical delights it held.

“The Pasha’s having fun,” Saruxha said.

“He doesn’t do that very often.”

“I thought I’d noticed that he doesn’t enjoy distractions. That proves he’s particularly happy tonight. In the circumstances, he has every right to be happy!”

The cymbals tinkled on at a jolly pace, with occasional pauses, as if to tease the listener.

“If he doesn’t win this campaign, his star will dim for good,” the Quartermaster said.

“Do you think so?”

“I’m sure of it. If he’s beaten, the best he can hope for is banishment for life. As for the worst …” The Quartermaster drew a line with his forefinger under his throat.

Again they nearly fell over tipsy troopers. They were mucking about waving flaming torches, swapping dirty jokes, laughing out loud. Others were playing at leapfrog or else trying to balance on a kind of seesaw.

The Quartermaster didn’t try to hide his disdain. “I don’t like to see the army unbutton itself,” he said.

His own tent was pitched away from the mass, in a quiet spot. Soldiers who didn’t feel like taking part in the feast were sitting or lying in front of their tents, chatting among themselves. Somewhere, someone was singing a sad song. The lyrics were not easy to make out: