The Pasha’s Tale by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781911591740
Publisher: Canelo Books
Published: 2017-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Of the Eagle’s eyrie

May 22nd – Seven days to the festival.

Skiouros approached the gate of the Eski Sarayi with faltering step and thundering heart. Despite its name, the ‘old palace’ was in fact a mere four decades old, the sultans only living there for a few years before building the new palace on the headland. Since then, the old palace had housed members of the imperial family when necessary, foreign dignitaries during their visits, or just otherwise lain empty and dormant. Now, it housed Şehzade Korkut, son of Bayezid the Second and governor of Manisa in the sanjak of Sarahun.

The young Greek’s eyes slid right, his head remaining immobile and locked on his destination. Off to the side loomed the large brooding block that was the headquarters of the janissaries in the city. Several of their number stood in guard positions around the periphery of the building and a number of flinty eyes watched him with distaste as he passed.

Skiouros tried not to feel self-conscious in his uniform, once more cursing Dragi and his companions for their choice of guise. As if entering the city’s main prison masquerading as a naval officer had not been enough, their choice of pretence to get him into the old palace was almost heart-stopping in its boldness.

His head felt warm and sweaty under the red skull cap with its flowing tail, his green shirt cut so low that his chest was open to the air, plucked clean of golden hair that morning by a comely Romani girl with all the gentle medical touch of a cavalry charge on packed earth. After all, his sea-and-sun bleached hair might raise comment among the almost universally dark-haired populace otherwise. Fortunately, between the red tail of his hat and the long sleeves of his shirt, the tattoos he bore were almost entirely concealed. He must finish the tattoo soon, when this was all over. But how? Not with a symbol for his brother’s avenged spirit as planned, for that vengeance had turned out to be a hollow, pointless and inhuman thing. But the space needed to be filled, appropriately in some way. Seven more days and he would have time to think…

His footsteps took him inexorably on to the old palace gates.

The voluminous blue muslin trousers were a delight to wear, and the light, soft calf-skin shoes were tremendously comfortable. But it was what these clothes meant that chilled him. That he was one of the Bostancı – the corps of gardeners. And each of that five thousand strong group was knowledgeable and trained in the growing, tending and pruning of the many elegant gardens of the Imperial city. But their horticultural positions in the grounds of the palaces and imperial buildings belied their other purpose. The low-cut shirt that displayed the wearer’s muscular form and reminded all of their strength. The soft shoes that allowed them to move almost silent and unnoticed. The blood-red skull cap with its clear connotations.

For the corps of gardeners also formed a sultanic guard that doubled as the court’s executioners.

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