The stone mansion at the very mouth of the great flat road coming from the west was as quiet as a shrine without visitors. A white-bearded, strange, melancholy steward, leaning against the gap of the green-painted iron gate, was lost in thought, staring at the ground and the confused vagrant traces. Behind the closed shutters of the deserted windows, it was as if a deep, inaudible cry of mourning was hidden. The wounded from the rout five weeks earlier that filled the city—suspicious horses, hungry mules, broken carts, limping soldiers, shieldless cavalrymen, helmetless janissaries, lanceless sipahis—cast their sorrowful reflections for a moment on the high white walls like a passing shadow nightmare, then trembling, they vanished.
The dead man lying in this tomb was Erzurum Commander İskender Pasha.
For weeks, in his dark room like the inside of a dusty sarcophagus, he had been sitting alone, prostrate on the prayer rug that ached his knees. What he awaited with a mechanical devotion, chanting “salat and salam,” was the tardy Azrael. Exactly thirty days… He would always seem to hear footsteps in his ear and would call his young steward.
“Fazıl!”
“My lord.”
“Has anyone come?”
“No, my lord.”
When the faithful youth pulled the door he had opened slightly, İskender Pasha would begin his untroubled worship again in the suddenly darkened sarcophagus silence. He no longer had any hope regarding this world. All he wanted was the salvation of faith. True, he was not a cowardly man. But to await a certain death every day, every hour, every minute, even every second… had broken his courage and weakened his nerves. Yes, either his head would be cut off, or he would be strangled! As he thought about it, he would feel as if he sensed the distinct touch of a cold blade on his nape.
As this distinct touch faded, his own strangled phantom would appear before him: a corpse with bulging eyes, his turban rolled to one side, his neck squeezed by a greasy noose, his slippers fallen from his feet, his silk sash loosened, his black tongue protruding from his dark, foaming mouth… İskender Pasha’s body dragging on the ground!
He would shiver, rub his eyes, and begin chanting his salats and salams again. The organic memory of his approaching fate was so vivid, so strong that… he could not even imagine the paradise gardens that adorned his childhood’s pure imagination, the processions of houris and ghilman, the Tuba tree, the Sirat bridge… His mind had stopped. His nerves, his brain were very tired. He could not eat. A leaden lump was stuck in his throat. He only drank water occasionally. When he rose to renew his ablution, his knees would give way, and dark, red specks would fly before his eyes.
Sometimes when he lay on the divan and dozed off, he would wake up with terrible, tormented dreams. His “after death” could not fit in his comprehension; it would suddenly go dark like the notion of non-existence. The greatest reality was right there, not leaving his sight—this strangled phantom of himself! Yes, there was no hope, no hope of salvation whatsoever. His fault was too great. While Suleiman of the age was waving the Turkish flag toward the walls of Vienna… While many of his comrades who had won glory with him in the battlefields, the brave lords, were bringing their noblest enemies to their knees before them, he had fallen into the ambush of a worthless upstart and was ruined. The Shah’s son İsmail Mirza had entered Erciş by treachery, demolished the fortress, had the fortress guard—Ibrahim, the world champion wrestler so beloved by the Sultan—beheaded, then deceived the people of Ahlat with a thousand tricks, inviting them to leave the city with a “guarantee.” Supposedly the poor wretches would withdraw freely. However, the traitor İsmail Mirza, as soon as they left the fortress gates, cut down all of them—children, women, elderly… all of them, not sparing a single soul. When this monstrous killer was to be punished, he, with an inexperienced soldier’s negligence, had rolled into the ambush set against him. The most renowned heroes at his side—the lords of Trabzon, Malatya, Bozok, Karahisar—had fallen as martyrs. An elegant, valuable, poetic man like Mahmut Bey, the sanjak lord of Biga, and the commanders of the right and left flanks had been captured, probably beheaded too… He himself had somehow escaped! This was a miracle. But if only he hadn’t escaped… What could be as insignificant as an unexpected death? But how terrible this death was when it was expected!
İskender Pasha heard footsteps again: “Fazıl!”
“My lord.”
“Has anyone come?”
The steward answered from the door opening: “A few officers have come, my lord.”
“Send them to the treasurer. Let them talk to him.”
“At once, my lord.”
For a month he had left everything to his treasurer, saying, “We no longer have time to deal with worldly troubles. It is time for repentance.” However, the treasurer who could not ensure the provisions, order, and discipline of the broken army was still occasionally forced to send officers to the commander. The household staff, who awaited their master’s fate with the same distinct hopelessness as he did, no longer harassed him. Everyone had turned to their own affairs. No sound disturbed the tomb atmosphere of this empty mansion where Azrael was awaited. From time to time, a cool, fierce wind would blow, crash against the walls, filter through the roofs, and djinns would play ball in the deserted halls.
But one day, İskender Pasha, doubled over on his prayer rug, with the resignation of a dervish who had reached the path, wanted to forget his certain death. At that moment he remembered his past. When he was very young, his service as a sword-bearer to Hüsrev Pasha, then his post as head gatekeeper, then as sergeant passed through his mind. He had married when he was “Middle Treasurer.” His wife, his children… His children were still very young. Where were they now! What would become of them! How he had caught the Sultan’s eye with the merits he showed in the conquest of Van Castle! None of the nobles dared to stay in this dangerous fortress. He himself had volunteered to stay, had repelled [316] how many times. Later, in the Erzurum region where he was commander, hadn’t his name frightened the enemies? But somehow he had been careless. He had given permission to the janissaries and nobles the Sultan had sent to this frontier, saying “Too many men cannot winter in Erzurum Castle,” and had not thought about Mirza İsmail’s appearance at all. The soldiers at his disposal were very few. They consisted almost only of nobles and household staff. Then, that dream he had seen the night before encountering Mirza… He remembered: while he was going on a narrow, bushy path on a black horse, a snake had appeared before him. This snake was sticking out its forked tongue at him, escaping into the bushes. He was dismounting his horse, running, catching it. But as soon as he caught it, his hands were covered in blood. There was no snake anymore. In the morning he had told this to the nobles and scholars who came to him; one had said “Catching a snake means catching poison. It is a vision of sorrow and grief,” an old hodja had interpreted it as “The Shah’s son is probably coming at you. God willing, you will catch him.”
So he had believed this auspicious interpretation, and when he saw the two regiments that Mirza had put forward to deceive him, he had lost his patience, resolution, mind, and judgment and had attacked them. True, he later gave his back to the fortress. He fought for hours. Twelve horses died under him. He fought in the battlefield until night, until he was left alone. But was war only courage? What was needed was strategy. While the strategic, great Sultan had assigned so many soldiers to the frontier, he had not understood the wisdom of this move and had given permission to many of them, sending them home. His fault was great! So great it could not be forgiven! Only death could cleanse this fault…
He began thinking about his death again. Yes, by now the executioner and guards who had set out from Istanbul must have come very close. What remedy was there other than submission to fate? He slowly straightened up. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness of his room, which he never lit. He could see the wide divan, the ablution basin and pitcher standing in the corner. Thin lines of light shone around the window shutters. He got up. And trembling, drank a few sips of water from the small jug on the cupboard shelf. Then he lay down on the divan. He called his steward: “Fazıl.”
“My lord.”
“Come inside.”
The tall, narrow-robed youth with a short cap entered: “What is your command, my lord?”
“I have learned that those bringing my decree have come very close here. You keep watching the road. Wait. When you see riders on the road, come immediately, inform me. If I am asleep, wake me, let me take ablution. Let me stand in prayer. While I am sitting in the tahiyyat, let the executioner do what he was ordered to do. Tell the guards too. This is my will. I shall see none of them. Do you understand, my son?”
“I understand, my lord.”
The youth was sobbing. İskender Pasha closed his eyes. When the steward went outside, the old sarcophagus silence of the room darkened again, like a dawnless night of calamity.
One day, toward evening, as İskender Pasha was asking for repentance and forgiveness in this nightmare darkness, the steward entered through the door. He could not open his mouth.
“What is it, my son?”
“Tell me…”
“They’re coming.”
There was no need to ask who was coming. He knew.
“Very well,” he said, “carry out my will exactly. Do not interrupt my prayer with words. Let them do whatever they were ordered. I am with Allah.”
The youth held his benefactor’s hands. He began kissing them while crying.
“Forgive me for my wrongs, my lord.”
“You are forgiven, my son, God willing you shall reach your desire. Do not make me speak… Come now, open the shutters of those windows.”
The crying steward opened the shutters that had been covered for weeks. A raw light poured inside. In front of the dust cloud they raised in the distance, some cavalrymen were rushing about. The Pasha already had his ablution. He stood on his prayer rug spread toward the qibla. He turned his head to the right. He looked at the opened windows. He was seeing this blue sky, these white clouds for the last time. He raised his weak hands to his ears: he forced himself once more to forget whatever was in his mind about the world, about illusions. He said to himself, “May I be with Allah!” He was reciting suras, bowing in ruku, prostrating in sujud. After praying two rak’ats, he stood in prayer again. While reciting, he was involuntarily hearing horseshoe sounds, sword clashes.
…They were coming upstairs!
The slightest noise grew with loud echoes in his brain. He heard his steward’s whispering voice like a shout. He was telling them his will: “Do not interrupt his prayer.”
“All right, all right.”
“Do whatever you were ordered immediately.”
“Fine! Fine!”
“He’s right here. Come…”
The door behind him opened. He felt all his blood, burning his body, rapidly draining from his veins and collecting in his clogged chest. He was going to suffocate. He could not breathe. He was sitting in the tahiyyat. While saying “Ashhadu an la…” he wanted to raise the index finger of his right hand, which had turned to stone on his knee. He exerted the last effort of his consciousness. He could not raise it. He had no strength. He could not recite the rest of the Ettehiyat. His jaws locked. His eyes were going dark. He felt the cold touch he had been waiting for violently on his nape. His heart stopped. He couldn’t even tremble. But… Where was it? With his heart beginning to beat again, a poisonous fire spread through his entire body. Everything was burning. He was going to fall. Before falling, with a final effort, he gave the salutation:
“As-salamu alaykum wa rahmatullah…”
He turned to his left too. Then, without looking anywhere, he closed his eyes. “What are you waiting for, come on!” he exhaled his last breath.
“You have gifts from our Sultan with an imperial decree, Pasha!”
An unfamiliar voice!… Instead of seeing a bare sword or a swarthy demon with a noose in his hand when he turned his head back, he saw four sergeants in red clothes, sash belts, and gold-threaded caps. One was holding a large bundle wrapped in gold thread like a swaddling cloth in his lap. The second had a golden sword in his hand… He glanced at the third, a jeweled mace… The fourth sergeant walked. He approached him. He knelt. He kissed the red pouch he held in his hand. He placed it on his head. Then he extended it to him. The Pasha, who saw neither sword nor noose, was bewildered. He grabbed the pouch extended to him with an absent haste. He kissed it quickly. Placed it on his head, broke the seal. He recognized his Sultan’s handwriting:
“…May your face be white in both worlds. The Shah’s son and his army were not your equal. But you proved your existence. And you did not neglect valor. Victory and defeat are related to divine will and providence. Keep your heart joyful…”
He could not believe his eyes. He was going to die of joy. The Sultan was reminding him of his old heroisms, consoling him for the disaster of defeat he had suffered, writing that he should not be sad and that he was granting him a robe of honor, a golden sword, a jeweled mace. When he finished this sublime letter of consolation, this just, this great, this sacred imperial decree, İskender Pasha became so light that… he stood up light as a feather. His tall stature was straight as a steel column. His yellowed cheeks immediately reddened. A flame of life ignited in his large blue eyes. The sergeant also had letters from other viziers. He took them too. He opened them one by one. He glanced over them. All of them, by the Sultan’s command, were consoling him. He had the gold-threaded bundle, the golden sword, the jeweled mace placed on the divan.
He said to his steward, “Fazıl, settle the aghas in a room. Let them rest comfortably, we’ll talk with them tomorrow.” His steward also went outside after the ornate sergeants who were bowing to greet him. The lifeless İskender Pasha of two minutes ago had suddenly come back to life. When left alone, he smiled. He stretched. He yawned. He slowly walked toward the divan. He opened the bundle. A heavy, gold-threaded, purple robe of honor with diamond buttons… He reached out, took the sword in his hand. Its hilt and scabbard were of solid gold. He drew it, tested the blade steel with his left thumb. Then he turned his head to the bright window. On the horizon, at the very end of the road, the half-set sun stood just like an opened gate of paradise. He looked and looked: Inside this sublime gate, he seemed to see the great army that the imperial decree mentioned, with their fine spears, their flags; this army would shed lights of justice on arrogant Iran in the middle of brave Turan. All his hairs stood on end. His eyes watered with joy, with excitement. Yes, tomorrow, undoubtedly he himself too… together with them he too would wield this sharp sword with the golden hilt he now held in his hand, for the sake of righteousness, for the sake of truth!
