The Architect's Apprentice (31 page)

Since the day Selim had ascended the throne, whenever Istanbul crushed his spirits, which happened often, he took off for Adrianople – the city where he had spent part of his youth. There he could hunt, loaf and drink to his heart’s content, away from judging eyes and wagging tongues. Like every man who was aware of being widely disliked, the Sultan felt beholden to those who supported him – and the people of Adrianople always had. So several years into his reign Selim decided to reward this loyalty by commissioning a mosque, not in the capital, as expected, but in his sanctuary town.

The moment it was announced that the sovereign would pay for a splendid mosque, the backbiting began. They said there was a reason why Istanbul had not been chosen. Having never commanded the army on a battlefield, the Sultan lacked the face to order so grand a monument in the seat of the throne. How could Selim’s mosque be within close proximity to Suleiman’s mosque, when the son could not hold a candle to the father? That is why, they said, the new construction could only have been in Adrianople.

Words like black bile. Regardless, Sinan – and the four apprentices – laid the foundations for the Selimiye in April. The Sultan awarded his architect a robe of gold and silver, showing how much he trusted him. Everyone on the site – from woodworkers to the galley slaves – watched in anticipation, neither sanguine nor gloomy. Somehow they seemed to sense they were bringing into existence something unique. They laboured with this knowledge – and this fear. It was a sin to create anything this lofty, as though to rival the Creator. The imams and the priests and the rabbis might not like to hear it, but deep inside they suspected that, sometimes, even God got jealous.

The idea for a mosque had come to the Sultan in a dream. He beheld the Prophet Mohammed – recognizing him not from his face, since no earthling could see that, but from his aura. Selim promised
him that should he conquer the island of Cyprus, he would build a fabulous Friday mosque with its spoils. The Prophet gestured to the angels waiting by his side. Gliding in the air, glowing like fireflies, they disappeared and returned with a scroll. On it was the design of the Selimiye.

Enchanted and excited, the next morning the Sultan did not want to wake up. When he ultimately did, he told what he had seen to his Grand Vizier. Sokollu, shrewd and sharp as he was, believed that a ruler’s dreams could be of two sorts: those he should not share with anyone, not even with his Grand Vizier, and those he should ensure were made known to everyone. This, he deduced, was of the second kind.

By midday, Sokollu broached the subject with the
Nishanci
, the Head of the Chancery. A man with a sweet tooth, he mentioned it to the Head Halvah Chef, who, in turn, related it to the merchant responsible for the nuts used in the royal kitchens. In the afternoon, the story left the palace in a pistachio cart, reaching the outskirts of Istanbul. From there it reached the streets of wool-dyers and leather-tanners. By the time the evening prayer was filling the air, hundreds had heard about it. Before the week was over, the whole city, including the Venetian Bailo, had come to know that the Prophet had demanded that the Sultan save Cyprus from the Christian infidels.

Selim visited the tombs of his ancestors and the grave of Ayyub the Martyr. The spirits gave him their blessing to wage a war. Yet, when the time came to embark, he did not go with the navy. The conquest would be made not by the Sultan’s sword but by the Sultan’s dream. The rewards would be huge. Nicosia was conquered and sacked until little remained of the town it once was. Famagusta, after being pummelled for months, was taken next – along with hundreds of captives.

In the meantime, back in Adrianople, the Chief Royal Architect and his apprentices were working their fingers to the bone. Sinan regarded each task as a cocoon in which to take shelter from storms of all kinds: once he was within, he shunned the outside world. He
had no interest in wars, much less in triumphs. Nevertheless, it was only after the capture of the island that the works gathered momentum. Tribute money poured in, bringing more workers, more materials.

Oddly, as the mosque built in his name rose higher and higher, the Sultan descended lower and lower. The two of them, the man and the building, were inextricably linked in a profound yet inverted way – like night and day. For one to exist the other had to perish. With every nail hammered, with each stone added on to the edifice, something was taken away from Selim – health, happiness, power and, ultimately,
kismet
.

While working on one of the eight massive piers of the Selimiye Mosque, one autumn afternoon, the master sent word to his apprentices that he wished to see them. Upon arriving at his tent, Jahan saw the others lingering by the entrance. He perched on a bench beside them, waiting for Sinan to end his meeting with some glass-makers.

Davud looked dour and distrustful, as was his wont. He whispered, ‘Master would never tear the four of us away from work. There must be something gravely wrong.’

Thankfully, the glass-makers soon left, saving them from making foolish guesses. They found the master sitting on a carpet decorated with blossoming trees in the middle and a procession of deer, gazelles, tigers and lions along the borders – woven in the city of Herat in Khorasan and presented to Sinan by a Kurdish beg for whom he had built an alms house. In his right hand, propped up against cushions, Sinan held a rosary, which he thumbed slowly. Jahan knew that he carried a different one for each of his moods: the azure opal when he was immersed in thoughts, the yellow amber when blithe, the black onyx when eager to start a new project. Today it was the pale green beryl, which he took when preoccupied. On the low table in front of him was a cup of coffee and a glass of water. Next to them lay a sketch Jahan recognized: the Hagia Sophia.

One by one they sat down on the carpet, facing the master. He was silent until they had settled; the sound of the beads, now moving faster, filled the air. Then he told them what had been preying on his mind.

The area around the Hagia Sophia, over the years, had been packed with hovels, every one of which had been built unlawfully. Several complaints had been made to the Chief Kadi of Istanbul, to no avail. At long last, seeing how desperate things were becoming, Sinan had
sent a petition to the Sultan. In his letter he had criticized the ignorant men who, taking the cubit-rule in their hands, had raised structures without any knowledge of the craft or care for the environs.

‘Our Sultan considered his humble servant’s request,’ Sinan said.

A committee had been formed. The Chief Kadi, the mosque’s imam, religious scholars and the doyens of draughtsmen and masons would get together to inspect the damage and report their findings. After that, provided the Sultan agreed to it, Sinan would repair the Hagia Sophia.

‘For this I need to go back to Istanbul, and I’d like you to accompany me.’

Jahan bowed his head, glowing with excitement. What an honour it would be to renovate this pearl of architecture – once a beloved basilica, now a grand mosque. The building that had goaded Justinian to exclaim with pride, ‘Solomon, I have surpassed thee!’ Yet, at the same time, Jahan had the distinct sensation that there was more to it than they had been told. He said, ‘Should our Sultan give permission for the mosque to be restored, what will happen to the surrounding houses?’

A shadow crossed Sinan’s face. ‘They will be demolished.’

Jahan took a breath, understanding Sinan’s conundrum. His master had to make a choice between the people and the building, and he had clearly chosen the latter.

Back in Istanbul, on the day of the meeting, much to their astonishment, they were joined by the sovereign and his entourage. Eager to see the situation with his own eyes, Sultan Selim had decided to come, attended by his grandees and viziers. Thus they walked around the Hagia Sophia. What they beheld was distressing beyond words. Gutters ran alongside the mosque’s outer walls, leaking a murky water that left those who came into contact with it dirtier than
before. On its edges frogs croaked, rats scampered, and faeces piled up – of animals and humans alike. Around a bend they saw the carcass of a dog, its jaw missing, its eyes open wide as though still in horror.

All the people living around the mosque had recently moved to Istanbul. Leaving their villages behind, they had migrated to the
seat of the throne
without a shelter awaiting them, kinsfolk to trust or land to till. Having heard from others that the area around the Hagia Sophia was unoccupied and within easy reach, they had put down roots there. It wasn’t only sheds of all sizes that encroached on the ancient building. There were ateliers, stables, sheep pens, milking parlours, chicken coops, latrines. Together, they leaned against the mosque, pushing into it from four sides. Such had been the pressure that the western walls of the Hagia Sophia, where the settlement was the most dense, had begun to tilt inwards.

The entourage entered a cobbler’s workshop. The artisan, wild-eyed with fear and dumbfounded at the sight of the Sultan, trembled and stuttered, unable to answer a single question. Mercifully, he did not faint. Down the street, in a lean-to, they saw huge cauldrons in which the intestines of animals were boiled to make candles. So horrible was the stench that the Sultan, holding a silk handkerchief to his nose, bolted out. The rest followed in haste.

One of the residents of this motley neighbourhood had built a cattle-shed and a three-storey house, renting the spare rooms to students and pilgrims. Another, in an attempt to open up a well in his back garden, had excavated deep into the ground, damaging the foundations of the Hagia Sophia. A third had raised a house that collapsed, miraculously without hurting anyone; after this he put up a second, this time succeeding in keeping it upright. Now a pile of rubble lay in his garden, where children played and dogs roamed.

When the tour was over, the Sultan called from atop his stallion: ‘Chief Royal Architect, step forward.’

Sinan did so, bowing low.

‘This is outrageous. It’s my wish to have the mosque restored.’

Sinan bowed again, closing his eyes in gratitude.

‘I give you my blessing. Start the restoration without delay. Set up buttresses where needed. Demolish the sheds. None of them were built with my permission.’

The Sultan waved a ring-bedecked hand, at which two servants came forward – one leading the way, the other carrying a kaftan of pure silk trimmed with ermine. The Grand Vizier took this and turned to Sinan, who was still kneeling, and asked him, in a gentle voice, to stand up. In this way, the architect was presented with the robe of honour.

Davud, Yusuf, Nikola and Jahan cast furtive glances at one another, unable to suppress their smiles.

‘Well, then. You may begin the work,’ the Sultan declared, pulling the reins of his horse, ready to leave.

‘Your Majesty, one of the unlawful buildings is a storehouse that belongs to the palace,’ said Sinan. ‘Are we permitted to knock it down along with everything else?’

Sultan Selim hesitated, though briefly. ‘Do what you need to do.’

The next day, they inspected the neighbourhoods of Zeyrek and Kalenderhane. Here, too, they found unlicensed constructions aplenty. Sinan decided to carve a space thirty-five cubits wide around the holy mosque and level everything within that area. He made his apprentices write down the plan for the work in detail. Not once, but twice. One copy for the approval of the Sultan, one for the archives of the architects in Vefa. They put on record their pledge to: fix up the parts of the Hagia Sophia, inside and outside, that had fallen into disrepair; bring fresh water to the mosque by means of new canals; cover the leaking roofs with lead; replace the wooden base of the minaret, dilapidated and crumbling, with a strong, brick one; open up a three-cubit-wide strip around the madrasa by dismantling the sheds; leave a clear space thirty-five cubits wide both left and right of the Hagia Sophia and knock down every unlawful structure; use the stones, bricks and planks obtained from the demolitions in the repair of the Hagia Sophia.

Shortly after he had received the list, the Sultan not only sent his approval but also issued a decree:

To the Chief Kadi of the city of Istanbul and the head of the endowment of the Hagia Sophia Mosque

This is my order to you and it ought to be followed at once and in its entirety. When it was reported to me that the Great Mosque suffered from the wear of time and the tear of people, and begged to be mended, I personally inspected the area in the company of the Master of Royal Architects and other experts, may God increase their wisdom, and have come to the conclusion that the restoration is essential and, as such, ought to be executed, since the repair of revered sanctuaries is the behest of God the Almighty and a noble responsibility for the Sultan.

Therefore, I command you to help the Chief Royal Architect and his draughtsmen, and to make sure that whatever they need is provided so that they can excel in their task.

Buoyed by the decree, Sinan and the apprentices embarked on the work. With them were eighty-five labourers equipped with mallets and sledgehammers, as well as a great quantity of gunpowder. Animals, too: oxen, camels, mules and Chota.

When they reached the Hagia Sophia, they found a throng of people waiting. They stood in the way, a wall of flesh and bone, not letting the labourers pass. Dark, hollow eyes squinted with exasperation, mouths drawn tight. The anger in the air was palpable. Unused to hatred of this kind, the apprentices were taken aback. So was their master, his face drained of blood, and suddenly looking very old.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Sinan.

‘We are destroying their homes,’ said Nikola.

‘Master, allow me to talk to them.’ It was Davud who said this. ‘They come from where I come. I know my people. We don’t want to turn them into enemies.’

‘He’s right,’ Jahan said. ‘We ought to persuade them before we start.’

Pulling his cloak around him, as though exposed to a draught, Sinan conceded. ‘Davud, go, speak with them. Make sure you tell them we shall compensate them for their losses. Our Sultan gave his word.’ Then he turned to the labourers. ‘We shan’t do anything today.’

The next morning when they arrived the street was empty and things seemed calm. That is until the foreman came running, his face flushed crimson, and said, without offering so much as a greeting, ‘
Effendi
, pray.’

‘What is it?’ Sinan asked.

‘They have stolen our tools, broken our carts. They are not letting us work, wicked people!’ A crowd – larger and angrier than the one from the day before – had gathered on the other side of the mosque, he explained.

‘What do they want?’

‘They say this is an infidel’s temple,’ explained Snowy Gabriel. ‘The nerve of them! They spread mean rumours about you, forgive me for saying so, master.’

‘What do they say?’ asked Sinan.

Snowy Gabriel lowered his gaze. ‘They say since you are a Christian convert, you want to destroy the homes of good Muslims for the sake of a church.’

Sinan said, his brow puckered in concern, ‘Mosques, churches, synagogues are built to honour God. How can they be disrespected?’

The mob heard none of this. In the ensuing days, the apprentices dealt with one trouble after another. The labourers were intimidated. Two animals were found dead, poisoned. Fearing something might happen to Chota, Jahan stopped bringing him to the site. Not a nail could be hammered, not a stone removed.

A week later Sinan sent his apprentices to the Chief Kadi to get help. He was a grey-bearded man with sunken eyes and a cautious mien. Jahan had expected him to be angry at the squatters. Instead, he was furious at Sinan.