The Treasures of Suleiman

by The Treasures of Suleiman (retail) (epub)

  ‘And how does this affect me?’

  ‘You are young and of the same age as those who seek the treasures. You speak their language so are ideal to follow them wherever their enquiries lead. Befriend them and help them in their task. Hold no knowledge back except your true purpose, and when the time is right, take the treasure from their dead hands. Do this and the sultan will not only give you wealth you can only dream of but our people will be given a homeland of our own. All this is in your hands.’

  Abbas remained silent for a while, taking in all the information.

  ‘My share of the proceeds,’ he said eventually, ‘they will be mine to spend as I like?’

  ‘They will, and you will be a rich man. The sultan will have recognition of his place in this new world and our people will have the homeland they need.’

  ‘And how do I do this?’ asked Abbas.

  ‘Find your own way, but keep the sultan’s people informed. If you need help, he will bring his power to bear with lethal force.’

  ‘Can we trust him?’

  ‘He is an honest man, but do not cross him. If he feels you seek advancement, either financial or otherwise at his expense, you will be dead within hours.’

  Abbas stood up.

  ‘I will think on this,’ he said, ‘and give you my answer in the morning.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Kosta. ‘Ask Almak for the spare bed roll.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ said Abbas. ‘There is a hotel less than an hour’s walk from here. I will sleep there, but you will have your answer before the sun clears the wadi walls.’ Before Kosta could answer, Abbas turned and strode out of the wadi without looking back.

  Chapter 7

  Samothrace 2011

  Brandon and India sat in the Greek cafe, sipping cold cokes as they waited for Adriano to arrive. They whispered quietly, speculating what they might find beneath the slab.

  ‘Could be diamonds,’ said Brandon.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said India, ‘diamonds were not commercially mined until the seventeenth century in India, so though they were available, they were extremely rare. Even then, they were seen more as a bauble than a gemstone. No, if anything, I think it will be jewellery of the Ottoman Empire.’ They continued musing until they heard the sound of Adriano’s car struggling up the hill. A few minutes later he stood alongside their table and accepted a cold drink from Brandon.

  ‘Did you bring the items?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘I did, but why do you need them?’ asked Adriano.

  Brandon explained the situation, while Adriano listened intently.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘No, but there is one way to find out. Come on, let’s get started.’

  They went to Adriano’s car and opened the boot, retrieving a pick, a shovel and a roll of blue and white police tape. Adriano walked up to the castle ruins and, flashing his police identification, encouraged the tourists to leave by quoting there was a safety issue with falling rubble. In the meantime, India tied the police tape between two litter bins, sealing off the entrance. When the place was empty, they gathered around the slab and Brandon eased the pick under the edge.

  ‘Here goes,’ he said, and pulled back on the handle, levering the slab upward. Adriano leaned forward and grasped the edge with his hands, adding his strength to that of Brandon’s. The slab eased upward until it was vertical and they lowered it down, away from the uncovered earth. India passed him the shovel and Brandon started to dig.

  ‘Do you think anything is there?’ she asked.

  ‘The ground is soft enough,’ said Brandon as he dug.

  ‘And he certainly had the opportunity,’ added Adriano. ‘The castle was shut for a week last month while safety work was being carried out. He could have spent some time up here without being seen.’

  Suddenly Brandon stopped.

  ‘I’ve hit something,’ he said and discarded the shovel to remove the loose dirt with his hands.

  ‘What is it?’ asked India.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Brandon through gritted teeth. ‘Got it.’

  He lifted out a square biscuit tin, dented from the strike of the shovel.

  ‘Very authentic,’ said India sarcastically. ‘Come on, open it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Brandon, ‘the lid is stuck.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Adriano, ‘we can open it later. Let’s replace the slab and remove the tape before too many questions are asked. This is not an official close-down, remember?’

  ‘OK,’ said Brandon and handed the tin to India. The two men filled in the hole and replaced the slab, stamping it into place. By the time they had finished, nobody would have known they had been there. Adriano rolled up the tape and they all got into the car to return to the hotel.

  * * *

  Half an hour later they all sat around the table in India’s room. Brandon produced a screwdriver borrowed from the hotel and started to lever the lid off the biscuit tin. Suddenly Adriano’s phone went off and he looked at the screen in disgust.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘it’s the boss.’ He put the phone to his ear and spoke in Greek to the man on the other end. Finally he hung up and turned to Brandon. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘There has been a complaint about the police closing the castle today.’

  ‘What are you going to tell him?’ asked India.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll think of something.’ He looked at Brandon. ‘You carry on,’ he said. ‘I will trust you to show me everything when I return.’

  ‘We will, I promise,’ said India.

  Adriano left the room and India rejoined Brandon at the table.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘let’s see what was so important that Gatilusi felt he had to hide it under a bloody castle.’ A few minutes later the lid popped off with a satisfying clang and India leaned forward to see into the tin. Brandon removed a plastic bag from within and tipped the contents onto a table.

  ‘What’s there?’ asked India, almost beside herself with excitement.

  He separated the items into three: an old roll of parchment, a folded piece of modern-day paper and a photograph.

  ‘So,’ said Brandon, ‘what have we got?’

  India slowly unrolled the parchment, careful not to break the fragile document.

  ‘It looks like a letter,’ she said. ‘Written in Turkish, I think. I have no idea what it says.’

  ‘What about this?’ said Brandon, unfolding the paper.

  He opened it up to see lines of writing down the page. The top line matched the words on the top line of the parchment while the second was in English. The pattern was repeated throughout the document. Brandon compared the two documents carefully before finally speaking up.

  ‘This one is a copy of the parchment,’ he said, ‘but with translations below each line. There is also a note from Gatilusi at the top.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Not much, just that the original letter was found in the Topkapi Palace and is believed to be from an exiled man to his brother in Constantinople.’

  He handed over the translation to India, who read it out aloud.

  My dearest brother,

  By the time you read this I fear I will be no longer of this world. A fever has befallen me and the physicians say that there is no cure. so I write to make my peace before God. Since leaving Constantinople, I have had a good life, yet always I longed for home. I did not return for there are forces of evil within the palace that would see me dead in the blink of an eye. I hold no regrets except one, that I did not live out my life with the woman of my dreams. She was guilty of nothing except love and I fully expect to see her soon before God.

  In the meantime, there is one thing more I would tell. On the night you helped me, I made you a promise that one day I would pay you a thousandfold the money you gave me. Unfortunately that has not come to pass, but when I left I was in possession of a document that it is rumoured to hold the secret to a great treasure. I sought this treasure for many ye
ars without success before finally giving it up as a fool’s errand and have lived relatively happily since.

  However, I am aware that there exists a second half of the document, located somewhere in the bowels of the palace, and should the opportunity arise, then the two halves would surely reveal fortune. This gift of hope is my legacy and should you see fit, may bring you return. My half of the map is secreted in a safe place but with a clear mind and memories of a happy childhood, your heart will lead you to its location.

  Do with it as you will.

  Your loving brother, Bora.

  India looked up at Brandon.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘A treasure map,’ he gasped. ‘No wonder Gatilusi was so secretive. He must have thought there was something in this.’

  ‘Well not a treasure map, exactly,’ corrected India, ‘but a letter mentioning one.’

  ‘Still,’ laughed Brandon, ‘if we can find out where this map is we can try to find this treasure ourselves.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said India, ‘it might be a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The letter is centuries old,’ said India. ‘Even if we find this map, the treasure is probably long gone or inaccessible due to modern-day structures.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a killjoy!’ said Brandon. ‘I fancy a good old treasure hunt.’

  ‘Brandon,’ snapped India, ‘don’t forget a man was murdered for this. Have some respect.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Brandon. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued India, ‘the letter doesn’t tell us where the map is, just that it is in a safe place.’

  ‘Perhaps he alludes to the location within the letter,’ said Brandon. ‘Read it again.’

  India read the letter again and Brandon listened carefully to see if there was any hidden message. When she had finished, he looked at her blankly.

  ‘It means nothing to me,’ he said.

  ‘Me neither,’ said India, ‘but if there’s no message, why would Gatilusi go to all that trouble to hide it?’

  Brandon picked up the photograph.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ he asked, handing it over.

  ‘Looks like a coffin of some sort,’ she said. ‘Seems like it is on display somewhere.’

  ‘Why display an empty coffin?’

  ‘I don’t know, unless they have some significant history, empty coffins are not usually displayed.’ She turned the photo over. In the bottom right-hand corner someone had written two letters, TS. As India examined the picture, Brandon picked up the translation once more. He read it over and over again, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary, without success. Finally he picked up the parchment and examined the strange script before placing it back on the table, completely at a loss. He looked over to India.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  India had put the photograph down and was holding the tin up to her face, breathing deeply through her nose.

  ‘Just an idea,’ said India. ‘There is always the possibility that if it’s not the message, it may be the vehicle.’ She sniffed again before passing the tin to Brandon.

  ‘Try it,’ she said. ‘What do you smell?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Brandon, ‘but it smells familiar, why, what do you?’

  ‘Lemons,’ said India.

  Brandon traced his fingers around the inside of the tin before rubbing them together and sniffing them once more. He placed one finger in his mouth to taste the residue, staring at India over his hand.

  ‘Lemon,’ he confirmed eventually. ‘But how could the parchment retain the scent of lemon after all these years?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have,’ said India. ‘Gatilusi put it there.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I think there may be two messages on the parchment,’ said India. ‘The first is the one we can see, the other is hidden unless the reader knows how to read it.’

  ‘Invisible ink?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Exactly,’ said India.

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Well, if I am right, the message would be written in a clear liquid, possibly a plant extract.’

  ‘And you need lemon to see it?’

  ‘Not necessarily, any mild acid would work as a reagent, but it seems Gatilusi must have used lemons.’

  Brandon leaned over to pick up the phone at the side of the bed and India stared at him in confusion. He winked at her before speaking into the phone.

  ‘Hello, room service? Could you send up a bowl of lemons, please? Yes, that’s right, six lemons. Thank you.’

  ‘There is one thing though,’ said India as they waited. ‘I wouldn’t be so keen to taste invisible ink in future if I was you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because hundreds of years ago, the most popular invisible ink was cyanide!’

  * * *

  Five minutes later, India stood in the bathroom squeezing lemons into the half-filled sink.

  ‘It can’t be too strong,’ she explained, ‘or the acid will just destroy the parchment.’ She dipped a pillowcase into the liquid before wringing it until it was almost dry. Finally she laid the damp cloth over the parchment and reached for the warm hotel iron she had prepared previously.

  ‘Here goes,’ she said and pressed the iron on top of the pillowcase. Wisps of steam hissed from the cloth and India rubbed the iron back and fore before finally peeling back the cloth to reveal the results.

  ‘Well?’ said Brandon impatiently. ‘Is there anything there?’

  India looked up with a smile.

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ she said, and stood back to let him see. Brandon looked at the parchment and at first couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly he noticed that the gaps between the words were filled with faint translucent marks.

  ‘See them?’ asked India.

  ‘I do, but I can’t make out what they say.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, idiot,’ said India, ‘they’re written in Turkish.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Brandon sheepishly. ‘Give me a pad and paper, I’ll copy them down.’ Ten minutes later, they had a string of different markings written across the page. Brandon looked at the parchment again. ‘The extra letters are fading,’ he said.

  ‘They would,’ said India, ‘the parchment is over five hundred years old. We are extremely lucky that the reaction lasted this long. I fear another treatment might wipe them out altogether.’

  ‘Right,’ said Brandon, picking up the documents, ‘we have what we need at the moment. These need to go to the hotel safe; I’ll take them down.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said India, ‘I’ll join you, I could do with a drink.’

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later they sat at the bar in the lounge talking quietly. The notes Brandon had made lay on the bar between them.

  ‘The problem is,’ said India, ‘this writing is not modern-day Turkish. Don’t forget it was written over five hundred years ago and most people these days won’t recognise it. What we need is someone with a passion for local history.’

  ‘And where would we find someone like that?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said India, ‘perhaps a cultural centre or a museum. There must be places in Istanbul.’

  ‘Why Istanbul?’

  ‘Don’t forget, the document was found in the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul so was probably meant for someone in that area. If there is a local dialect involved, it will probably be around there somewhere.’

  ‘I thought Topkapi Palace was in Constantinople,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Same place,’ said India, ‘it’s just the name has changed over the years.’

  A gentleman in a suit entered the bar and walked up to India.

  ‘Miss Summers,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks, ‘you have had a good day on our little island, yes?’

  ‘We have,’ said India, blushing slightly. ‘Mr Maragos, can I introduce my friend, Brandon
Walker?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Walker,’ said the hotel owner, ‘I hope you enjoy your time here.’

  ‘I am sure we will,’ Brandon said, ‘thank you.’

  The hotel owner looked down at the paper on the bar.

  ‘I did not know you spoke Turkish,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t,’ India said. ‘Why, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Maragos, ‘but the script is familiar. We have many Turkish customers who spend their holidays here.’

  Brandon glanced at India.

  ‘I don’t suppose there are any here at the moment who could help us translate this?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, as luck has it, there is a young gentleman who may be able to help,’ said Mr Maragos. ‘In fact he is sitting over there in the corner. Apparently he is a trainee archaeologist studying the nomadic tribes of Turkey. Would you like me to introduce you?’

  Brandon and India glanced at each other, hardly believing their luck.

  ‘That would be great,’ said Brandon and followed the hotel owner to the corner.

  ‘Mr Kassab,’ said the hotel manager as the young man stood up to greet them, ‘please forgive me for intruding, this is Miss Summers and her friend Mr Walker. They were wondering if you could spare them a few minutes to translate some Turkish writing. Of course, if you are too busy…’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ said the man in good English. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said the hotel manager, and walked back to the bar.

  ‘So,’ said the stranger, ‘how can I help you, Miss Summers?’

  ‘Please, call me India,’ she replied, ‘and this is Brandon.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you both,’ said the man, ‘and you, of course, must call me by my given name. I am called Rashid, Rashid Bin Kassab.’

  * * *

  The three made small talk while the waiter brought a tray of chilled drinks. Brandon talked little, listening to the two history buffs rambling about the wonders of Samothrace. Finally, the conversation turned to the subject of the writing.