Ismail Kadare - The Siege

Çelebi tidied away the pages of his chronicle in a folder, got up and went out. The sky was overcast once again. There was a hot wind that grated on your throat. Now and again it raised a cloud of thick dust which it deposited on the tents. Soldiers lay on the ground outside not even trying to shelter themselves from the dust and wind. Resigned and grey, they were waiting for the roll of the big drum to call them to assemble in their units. It must be the fifth assault to be launched in a week. Even hardened veterans could not remember such a diabolical rhythm of attack. They all now knew that as the rain clouds gathered in density, they would be required to attack ever more fiercely, and more frequently.

The chronicler wandered around the camp for some time without meeting anyone he knew. He observed the faces of nameless soldiers and officers drowsing in the humid, suffocating heat. Their eyes expressed endless weariness. The dust that rose from the dry ground seemed to have cast a veil of indifference over everything. Neither the Pasha’s pavilion, in front of which soldiers usually slowed their pace to stare with veneration at the tall metal pole topped by the brass crescent, the ancient emblem of the Ottoman Empire, nor the tent pitched next to it, the only one to be lilac in colour among the infinity of other tents, which tens of thousands of men had imagined as a shimmering purple cloud hovering over their stormy sensual desires, attracted anyone’s attention any more.

The roar of cannon filled the air from time to time.

Everyone was waiting.

At last the chronicler saw someone he knew — Tuz Okçan. At first Çelebi felt pleased, but then he noticed that the officer’s face was extraordinarily pale. Okçan was walking slowly and what surprised the chronicler most was that the janissary had an armed escort.

“Tuz Okçan, what’s happened to you?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’m being taken to hospital.”

“To hospital? Under armed guard? Wait a minute: weren’t you in the last assault?”

“That’s the point,” the janissary replied with a bitter smile. “Somehow or other, when I opened the cursed rat cage with my knife, I got a graze.”

A gleam of terror lit the chronicler’s eyes. The janissary took him by the sleeve.

“Listen, Mevla,” he said imploringly. “You’re in touch with Sirri Selim. Honestly, what was the disease carried by the rats we released during the attack? He ought to know!”

The chronicler shrugged his shoulders.

“I swear to you by Allah that I have no idea.”

“Could it be the plague?” the janissary asked anxiously.

“Plague? Have you gone crazy? Come on, now. How can you think of such a thing?”

“I feel dreadful.”

Çelebi could not think what else to say. The janissary moved off with his guard without saying farewell. The chronicler was glad their encounter had been brief. He walked away in the opposite direction, fearing that the janissary might retrace his steps. The fact that he had an escort was a bad omen. He had heard what had happened to the first soldiers who had been infected with the scourge. They went first to Sirri Selim’s “Death Row,” then were taken to a set of long sheds surrounded by a ring of lime, and left locked up there until they died.

Another one down, the chronicler thought. Like Sadedin. Like the astrologer. He recalled the night before the first attack, when the four of them had drunk raki from the same gourd. It seemed so long ago now, as if it had been in a different world.

His feet led him to the open area in front of the Pasha’s tent. As always, two sentries stood motionless with their lances at the ready beside the entrance to the tent. A gust of wind covered the guards’ faces, their lances and the brass emblem with a pall of dust. The whirling, scorching, yellow cloud formed bizarre shapes reminiscent of ancient legends. Mevla Çelebi felt dangerous associations of ideas beginning to emerge in his mind and in order to dispel them he turned on his heels. At that point he saw several members of the war council walking towards the commander-in-chief’s tent. Among them he could make out the Mufti, with a sanxhakbey beside him. Their orderlies, who had to stay outside, lay down on the grass a little way off.

Yet another meeting, the chronicler thought, and then halted. The Quartermaster General came along unaccompanied. He looked worried and passed without turning his head. A few moments later, Kara-Mukbil went by, looking glum. People said he’d been wounded again during the assault two days ago. Then along came Saruxha, a pair of sanxhakbeys, and Kurdisxhi, leaning on his two orderlies. Beneath his russet mop of hair, the latter looked stunned, sallow, almost wan, as he had never looked before. He had visibly just got out of bed, and in view of his serious physical condition, his attendance at the Pasha’s tent meant that the meeting must be of utmost importance. The cannon were roaring without interruption.

The Alaybey came alone. In his wake, one by one came deaf Tahanka, then Karaduman, Kapduk Agha and, behind him, scowling as if trying to hide some great pain, Old Tavxha. All of them, or almost all, looked worn out. Only Giaour the architect, who marched in last of all with a particularly regular stride, looked his usual, imperturbable self.

The dust whirling about Çelebi’s head failed to sidetrack the chronicler’s mind. The Empire was powerful. It was a great Empire even in adversity. The crescent of the Osmanlis would live on down the centuries. Strong and competent men were making decisions. They would think it through. They would not give up the citadel lightly. Now their grave words were clashing like weapons striking each other in battle, and the scribe was putting them down on paper. A bitter pang of jealousy suddenly shot through him. He was on the point of leaving once and for all when his eyes fell on the long visage of Sirri Selim. The doctor was standing as still as a pikestaff a few paces from the pavilion. He didn’t seem to have noticed the chronicler, which made the latter uneasy. He didn’t dare go away without greeting Sirri Selim, in case Selim had noticed his presence. On the other hand he was hesitant about being the first to speak, because the doctor’s elongated face and his bloodshot, insomniac eyes looked particularly intimidating that day. He decided to stay where he was until the doctor appeared to notice him. Selim looked petrified. The chronicler even wondered if he hadn’t fallen asleep standing up, and might collapse at any minute.

At last the doctor became aware of Çelebi’s presence. Blood rushed back to his pensive face.

“They’re making a decision in there,” he said, gesturing towards the Pasha’s tent.

The chronicler nodded.

“They didn’t ask for me,” Sirri Selim went on. The blush on his face and neck had turned purple in blotches. “They’re not pleased with me,” he added in a louder voice.

Çelebi looked around fearfully.

“They want everything to happen in a flash, but nothing happens like that. To be honest, I didn’t put much hope in the rabbits, the toads or the dogs. But the rats …” His voice almost broke with emotion. “I can’t hide it from you, Çelebi, the rats really let me down!”

The chronicler could hardly believe his eyes. This frightful beanstalk who had cut a man into little pieces in front of everyone was on the verge of tears!

“Maybe it’s not the poor dears’ fault … The enemy sets traps for them, and who knows how much they suffer before they pass away! They probably did take in the disease I entrusted to them, but nonetheless …”

He pulled himself together. His voice grew clearer and one of his eyes went bleary.

“All the same!” he said again. “All that trouble for an ordinary disease … Çelebi, they’re not giving me my head. Ah, if I could have things my way, you’d see what I can do … My dear friend, let me tell you a secret. I wrote a letter to the Padishah: ‘Let me have the plague, O my master!’ Yes, that’s what I wrote to him!”