fic: The Last Janissary; Turkey, Greece
Hello again! This is kind of a continuation of the last story. Almost three parts- related, but separate. Hope you enjoy! (I'm so, so sorry for the title.)
Title: The Last Janissary
Author: me
Pairing: none, really, but TurGre is always implied
Rating: pg-13 for massacres
Summary: In the last part of the 1820s, the end of an era finally came, with the last stand of the Janissaries. And Turkey waits in the Topkapi Palace for one Janissary in particular.
It was in the late 1820s, and the world had become a different place from when Turkey could walk freely in Europe, and be the nation most feared among them. Too many things had changed, and though his Janissaries had always been a bit of a handful, they were finally getting to be too much to support. Turkey stood quietly within the Topkapi Palace and lifted his chin thoughtfully when he heard the first few strains of the kettle drums split the choking night.
Turkey admitted that the way his bosses (and, if he were going to be honest with himself, himself as well) had handled the whole affair really left a lot to be desired. They (and he) had spoiled the Janissaries at times- one especially. One more than most. Greece, face beautiful and defiant as he would reject the meal prepared for them by the sultan (and Turkey).
It had always been this way, he reflected, as the summer night air pressed hard in on him, like a watchful creature. All of Istanbul was holding its breath. It had always been like this- in 1452, when he realized that he could no longer simply step on the boy to have his wishes obeyed. It was the first time that Greece lashed out back at him, surprising Turkey with his strength. And Sadik relented, surprised, because he really hadn’t seen this coming, and, in the dreadful silence created by ruin, he shifted his robes and detached his coin purse and tossed it to the boy. “There.” He said with honestly no malice in his voice, but surprise. “If you’d wanted more pocket money, you could’a just said something.” He said, voice muffled past his mask, from where they were standing in the First Court, and Herakles stood there, still just a child in his Janissary armor, not really old enough to wear it yet.
It was in 1622 when Sadik admitted they might have had a problem- when, past the fires that Greece could control like a pet bear, walking up and down the streets of Istanbul, taunting Sadik into action, past the riots in the streets when they would drum their kettle-drums in a tattoo he’d come to dread to hear, he finally supposed it got a little out of hand. Herakles, standing there, unable to breathe, the blood of the boy sultan covering his hands and face, and his eyes shuttering with the effort of the moment.
And it all came to a head that night. After five hundred years of waiting, of humoring and favoring, of eventually rewarding, came to what was going to be an end. In the streets, far off in the distance, he could hear the rise of the kettle drum, and knew he only had a short time to wait before it all became a confused muddle. When the swell became nearly unbearable, long after he’d heard the roar of the artillery fire (a noise sounding again, and again, which made his hair raise on end) when Turkey had almost moved from his spot, Greece finally staggered into the room.
His uniform was sooty, and part of it had been burned. He’d just escaped a shelling to come to the palace, Sadik could see, when he realized death was only immanent. His sword was naked in the night air, blood and metal both catching the light of the torches and braziers, held aloft just away from himself, in a show of energy and passion that was normally so uncommon to the youth. His face was smudged with gunpowder and limned in sweat, his eyes huge and unreadable, and swimming in the grime. They considered each other, in the half light of the Court, where Sadik was standing just within the building, legs spread and waiting, before Greece finally spoke.
“So, after four hundred years, you’re finally getting rid of me?” His voice was more wounded than it should have been, but maybe that was just smoke inhalation. Perhaps being the sole, exclusive protector of the Ottoman Empire had become an unexpected honor for him. Sadik forced a humorless grin, though Herakles couldn’t see it past the masks, because there were still few things in the world that pleased him as much as seeing Greece in his uniform.
“Oh, not getting rid of you, darling. I could never get rid of you. You’ll be part of my new army instead.” The boy’ face was beautiful and destructive- Sadik could tell he was a hair-trigger away from attacking Sadik himself.
“I like how it is now just fine.” Greece forced, using the archway next to him for support, and his hand clenched the braided hilt of his sword. Sadik let it play out instead of being merciful and putting the boy out of his misery. But he knew there were few things Herakles hated more than being showed he couldn’t put up a fight for it- perhaps this way was more merciful.
“We can’t keep it the way it is.” He responded easily, allowing his arms to come up in a careless shrug, voice almost light, almost neutral in the way it often was when they discussed politics, and the movements of the Empire.
“We can.”
“I say we can’t.” Sadik still kept his voice light, but finally allowed that final, deadly note of emotion into it. It was the one that would tell Greece it was final. Ah, there- finally, he was getting that frustrated, infuriated flush from the boy, the one reserved solely for Sadik. Past all the fighting and grandstanding, this reaction was private.
“You have to.” Sadik was prepared for the charge. Despite the boy’s quickness, he knew his movements and the way he worked far too well, and he wasted no time in leveling his rifle. He felt dirty. Holding this weapon, in a place where he’d never allowed Western influences, holding this bawdry thing felt like the last, greatest insult. But Greece stopped, and his sword lowered slowly until the tip met the ground. His eyes were glistening clearly from where he stood not ten feet away, nostrils flaring and lips working, and his voice was thick when he spoke.
“You damn, dirty bastard. You damn, dirty bastard.” He was relieved when the boy’s sword clanged against the stones, relieved that he didn’t have to pull the trigger. Even relieved when the boy finally fainted from lack of oxygen from having been smoked out in the barracks; he’d felt dirty when he hadn’t warned the boy of what was to come when Herakles had disappeared with a mutinous expression hours ago. He knew the kid’s intentions were the barracks, a place he rarely visited. But now, he was just relieved.
With a sigh, he stepped forward and relieved the boy’s neck from the tight confines of the tunic and unbuttoned him to the navel, and freed his head of the headpiece. It was an infantry uniform, unremarkable from any other, and that was what was finally painful to him- in all things, despite everything, Herakles had served him well. He had fought well, had been wounded well, and now this era was finally going to die well. He hefted the boy from the ground and started carrying him to the harem, knowing full well the rest of his emissaries were soon to follow, and raised his voice for the palace medic. It wasn’t going to end this easily, or as peacefully, for many of the others, he knew. It was going to be a massacre
And as the night deepened, and flashes of burning steel and rock carried up into the sky, as he carried Herakles through the Courts, his gaze sought out the tattoo shining dully on the white flesh of the boy’s wrist, and listened to the rise of screaming behind him.
Notes: The Janissaries were finally disbanded in 1826 (some say 1830) rather after four-hundred years of serving and tormenting the Ottoman Empire. Though they were one of the best fighting forces to that time in the world, they were becoming quickly outdated in comparison to European armies, as they lacked the military precision possessed by nearly everyone else at the time. Perhaps in example of this, they fell rather easily to the new, “Frankish” trained army of the Sultan, after being burned out of their barracks, and were forced to flee into the forests around Istanbul.
Some other notes of interest: in 1452 was when the Janissaries first revolted in response to inadequate pay.
In 1622, the Janissaries had already become one of the greatest fighting forces of the world, but they were also hideously corrupt, and would often carefully burn sectors of Istanbul in order to get their way- in this year, they murdered the teenaged sultan after he tried to unsuccessfully rout their coup.