“Yes, pasha,” they responded briskly in unison. “As you will it.”
Kamil allowed himself a smile at the loyalty of the men who had accompanied him through such hardships already. For many this would be their first battle. He prayed it wouldn’t be their last. He hoped it wouldn’t come to fighting. If he could speak with the other troop’s commander, he was sure they could escape bloodshed. Perhaps the excesses were the work of rogue soldiers, not the central command.
Still, it was prudent to be prepared for the worst. He stationed some men along the protected walkway at the top of the wall and others by the gate. Since the ground-floor windows had been bricked up and others blocked with insulation, once the door was locked, those inside the monastery building would be relatively safe.
The afternoon passed as slowly as if it were mired in clay. More refugees arrived, including a dozen or so local men, out of ammunition or having lost their weapons. Kamil issued each man a firearm, grimly aware that the guns were from the stolen shipment, and posted him at a station. The refugees all told more or less the same story. A group of armed Kurdish tribesmen had swooped in unannounced, rounded up whatever men and boys over the age of ten they could find, and shot or felled them with an ax to the back of the head. They had broken down the doors to the homes and taken gold and other valuables and carried off some of the young women, then left. Some reported meeting a man in a black uniform who had asked them in broken Armenian whether any strangers had traveled by in recent weeks.
Kamil heard the thunder of hooves before he saw anything on the road. From the sound, he estimated at least a hundred men. As they came closer, Kamil saw that they filled the valley. He scanned the battlements to make sure his soldiers were in position. He had set men to guard the doors and windows of the monastery and some of the older boys to fetch ammunition.
“Two hundred, at least,” Omar commented. He checked over his weapons, a rifle with extra bandoliers across his chest, a pistol and an ax tucked into his sash, and a large curved knife in a scabbard at his side. He grinned. “Well, I’m ready.” The police chief’s face was charged with anticipation.
Kamil too had a rifle in his hand, extra ammunition slung across his chest, and a pistol in its holster at his side. He bent over and checked that the knife in his boot slipped out easily. But he still hoped that the troop commander would approach the monastery first to parley or to allow them to surrender. All Kamil needed was one chance to identify himself as a representative of the sultan. Surely then they wouldn’t attack. He had set the sultan’s standard, a pole topped with the regimental insignia, high on the wall where the approaching troops could see it.
Apollo and Vera, both armed, climbed up beside Kamil and looked out over the battlements. He heard their sharp intake of breath. Elif emerged from the monastery, and Kamil noticed with a stab of apprehension that instead of a gun, she carried several knives, one tucked into her cummerbund, another in a scabbard at her side. When she turned to speak to someone, he saw the large curved knife in a scabbard on her back, where she could reach over her shoulder to draw it. Kamil’s heart beat rapidly for a few moments, and then he calmed himself and focused his mind. He accepted a cup of water from Vera and, after drinking, let a few drops spill to the earth to inaugurate this final journey. “May our path be open,” he whispered to whatever gods inhabited this wild place.
Just then he noticed a blur of motion at the gate. Sakat Ali was unlocking it and pushing it open. A moment later Elif descended upon him. Sakat Ali doubled over, clutching his right arm, and Elif and several soldiers pushed the gate shut again and locked it.
83
“What?” Huseyin croaked. “Why haven’t you told me this before?” He stood up, steadying himself on the arm of the chair. It was the time of day that he usually took a restorative sleep, and he felt tired. He wondered where Feride had gone. He hadn’t seen her since she had brought him his tea that morning. Something was bothering her. Since his return, she had refused to look him in the face. He caught sight of himself in a gold-framed mirror on the wall and saw the pink scar that stretched across his cheek from his ear to the side of his nose. Did Feride find him ugly now? Too ugly to love? He felt suddenly incapable of standing and sat heavily on a chair.
Yorg Pasha was dismayed to see that he had overtaxed and upset Huseyin. Doctor Moreno had told them that although Huseyin was able to move about with a cane, his lungs were still not healed, and it wouldn’t take much for the toxins in his lungs to infect other tissues. Huseyin was not to leave the house, Doctor Moreno had impressed upon his family, and he was not to be distressed.
“Kamil still has two weeks to report back before Sultan Abdulhamid sends troops to the valley,” Yorg Pasha lied. He didn’t tell Huseyin about the reports Simon had been receiving that the entire region was preparing for an attack, or that after the recent attempt on his life the sultan had decided not to wait for Kamil’s report. The troops were on their way to the east. Yorg Pasha had sent Kamil a telegram in Trabzon warning him of the impending attack, but Kamil had inexplicably continued on to New Concord. He hoped Huseyin would know a way to help but hadn’t wanted to upset him by telling him the full extent of the danger Kamil was in.
“Get my coat,” Huseyin told a servant, “and get the carriage ready. I’m going to my office.” He rose from the chair and leaned on his cane.
“Really, Huseyin. There’s no need.” Yorg Pasha reached out a hand to stop him.
“You don’t understand. I’m the sultan’s minister for the east.”
He looked at Huseyin in surprise. “That doesn’t matter. You need to stay home and rest. Write a letter and I’ll take it to the palace.”
“Bah,” Huseyin growled, and hobbled from the room.
Yorg Pasha hurried after him. Wrapped in furs, they stepped out onto the drive, where Vali waited with the carriage. It had rained overnight and the air was chilly. Huseyin stopped for a moment and swayed, then took a breath, which Yorg Pasha could see was painful for him. Vali helped the two men, one after the other, into the carriage, which he had padded with felt against drafts.
“Is this really necessary?” Huseyin rasped, indicating the ten Albanian mounted guards following the carriage. “I’m not afraid of Vahid.”
“You should be,” Yorg Pasha told him.
84
“The attack is already under way?” Huseyin wheezed. “Why didn’t you keep me up-to-date?”
His secretary stood before Huseyin’s mahogany desk, head bowed and hands clasped before him. “We couldn’t discover where you were, Your Excellency.”
“All right. But now I’m here, so I expect to be kept fully informed.”
“Naturally, Your Excellency.”
“Arrange for us to see Sultan Abdulhamid.” He included Yorg Pasha with a wave of his hand.
“When?”
“Now.” Huseyin tried to shout and instead began to cough. He cringed until the pain subsided.
Yorg Pasha sat silently in an armchair at the side of the room while Huseyin was briefed by his staff. Gilded high-backed chairs with gold brocade cushions rested near several tables and crowded desks, presumably for Huseyin’s secretaries. It was a well-appointed office, occupied by a man who kept on top of things. It was not what Yorg Pasha had expected of Huseyin, whom he had always considered a sharp-tongued bon vivant. He had heard good reports of him from the palace from time to time, but had never given much thought to Huseyin as a minister. It had always seemed so unlikely from the boy and then the man he thought he had known. He was pleased to have been proved wrong. He needed his competence now.