Ismail Kadare - The Siege

Tursun Pasha urged them to get back to the issue of the attack. Someone mentioned the astrologer.

“And what does the man of magic say?” the Pasha asked with unhidden irony.

No one answered. The Pasha repeated the question, turning to the Mufti, who was normally in close contact with astrologers.

Silence.

“Our troops are getting torn to shreds on the battlements,” the Pasha said in a voice that was beginning to become hoarse. “And that man can’t even be bothered to make predictions! Have him flogged in public and then sent to work in the mass graves, like his predecessor.”

They weren’t much surprised by sudden outbursts of this kind. The Pasha was openly resentful of all the inspectors and functionaries dispatched from the capital. He reckoned that most of them were only there to observe his fall, and so he took any pretext for getting his own back on them.

After a short pause for the scribe to note down the punishment meted out to the astrologer, the members of the council resumed their deliberations. Some were against repeat attacks on the fortress. In their view it was better to wait until Sirri Selim’s plan had had its full impact and the wells and the defenders were infected. The Pasha followed the discussion for a while, but then his attention was once again distracted.

Someone mentioned clouds.

“Alas, our great Padishah cannot give orders to the clouds,” the Quartermaster said, as a way of countering Kara-Mukbil, who had spoken against the proposal to attack again straight away. “One fine day they can come over the horizon and a sudden shower may then quench the defenders’ thirst, despite all our long efforts to make it unbearable.”

Rain! Never had rain been so constantly on the Pasha’s mind as it had these past two weeks. He excoriated it and tried to banish it from his thoughts, but to no avail. Looking at a clear, majestically blue sky under the command of a blazing sun, he sometimes thought that rain had disappeared for ever from the entire surface of the world. Yet he knew that at that very moment, while they were being stifled by heat, somewhere else, in other lands, rain was falling quietly, steadily, as depressingly as death itself. It was far away for the time being, but perfidious clouds did not need many hours to bring it to them and drown their efforts in hateful spittle.

“They’re hoping for rain,” the Quartermaster went on. “On one of their towers they have set up rotating tin plates by means of which they can predict the weather. That means they are near the end. We have to hurry.”

At these words, the meeting collapsed into confusion and everything sank once again into muddle and dispute. The first targets of attack were the sanxhakbeys. All eyes were then trained on the Mufti, who looked overwhelmed and knocked out. He had taken the punishment of the astrologer as a personal affront, and was choking on his own anger. Suddenly, he asked to be allowed to speak.

“Everything that has happened has a sole and single cause,” he declared gravely. “Licentiousness! The army has fallen prey to licentiousness. Apparently that evil cross is doing its devilish work. Our religious spirit is being weakened. Atheism is spreading. During the last attack a large proportion of the eshkinxhis were drunk. Degeneration can be seen all around, but our officers are turning a blind eye.”

The Mufti urged them all to get a grip on things before it was too late. He requested that reading the Koran be made obligatory, that alcoholic beverages be banned, and that the sale of captive women and the presence of prostitutes be similarly forbidden. He wanted no more performers to be sent from the capital. Ottoman soldiers had no need of bottom-waggling whores or of strutting young perverts showing off the latest fashions.

“There is one more thing,” he continued, looking straight in Tursun Pasha’s eye. “It is in the army’s interest, and in yours, too, to get rid of the wives you brought here with you. That is all.”

Such a heavy silence ensued that even the scribe did not dare break it with the noise of his quill.

“Snake in the grass!” the Pasha hissed silently. His eyes gleamed more brightly than the ruby on his ring. Everyone held their breath. They knew that of all possible conflicts within a war council, outright hostility between the military and the religious commanders was the one that could have the direst effect. It was as if the great Padishah, who held both temporal and spiritual power, was tearing himself apart.

A viper and scorpion rolled into one! Tursun Pasha muttered silently between clenched teeth. The Mufti must have known that he was no longer at the peak of his favour at the Sublime Porte. That’s how he can dare to flout my authority. But there was one thing the religious head did not know: if the commander-in-chief scored a victory, all the Muftis and imams of the entire Empire would be toothless against him. On the other hand the Pasha was well aware that if he was routed, he could be knocked over by an ant.

Vermin! he sputtered silently once again. He wished he could heap on the Mufti’s head all the insults that Saruxha had thrown at Tavxha a few days previously and that Kapduk Agha had told him about in a private report. But as he was not in the habit of using vulgar language he couldn’t remember the words. “You piece of trash!” Saruxha had once said, on another occasion, “I’ll pull off your beard and wipe my arse on it!”

Even before he opened his mouth to respond, all present had grasped that he considered himself to have the upper hand, and that was enough for most of them to take his side.

“I have heard what you said, O Mufti,” he said, speaking each word separately. “I have heard you speaking ill of our glorious soldiers and officers in action. Now it is your turn to listen to me. Captive women are allowed, artistic performers from the capital are allowed, the Koran will be read neither more nor less than at present, and soldiers, when off duty, are allowed, as I am, to amuse themselves as they see fit. And if you don’t like it, you can get out. Right now, if you want!”

Tahanka made a noise that seemed to come from a severed neck. While the outcome of the conflict remained uncertain, the gargle, by the fact that its meaning was impenetrable, aroused the envy of all present. Anyway, they all knew that Tahanka’s contributions to their debates were written up by the scribe as “Sounds from Tahanka”. Moreover there was every likelihood he would take the Pasha’s side, since the latter had come to the defence of Tahanka’s eshkinxhis .

“Pasha, sire, weigh your words carefully!” the Mufti shouted without rising from his seat. “It was not you who appointed me to the post that I hold.”

“But I am he who is in command here,” Tursun Pasha threw back at him. “And from this moment I strip you of the right to speak.”

The ensuing silence seemed charged with new meaning, such that the piercing screech of the scribe’s quill seemed the most appropriate way of recording the ban on the Mufti opening his mouth.

“Now let me warn you all. Any rebellion, from whatever quarter, including any of you, will be dealt with by putting the instigator in irons. And I shall answer to the Sultan himself for all such actions.”

The Quartermaster General requested the floor.

“After all that we have just heard, we should assume that a state of emergency has been declared.”

“Yes,” the Pasha said. “That is precisely what has happened.”

“Then I understood you correctly, sire,” the Quartermaster said before sitting down.

“You may now discuss the doctor’s report,” the commanderin-chief resumed. “Keep it short.”

With the obvious intention of clearing the air, the Alaybey addressed Sirri Selim in a completely relaxed tone of voice, as if nothing had happened, and asked him how many days it would take for the epidemic to break out.