‘And with you, friend. You honour my house with your visit. Will you enter and rest?’
‘I will, and I thank you.’ Bowing, Hamza stepped over the threshold. Abdul-Matin immediately squatted in the doorway, pulling his cloak around him.
As he followed his host up the stairs, Hamza was pleased. On the neutral ground of a tavern they might have wrestled for tongue. Here, as host, Theon was obliged to speak that of his guest.
At the entrance of the room was a woven mat. ‘There are slippers for your use.’ Theon gestured.
‘Thank you. I have my own.’ Hamza reached into his satchel, pulled out a pair lined in sheepskin, struggled out of his heavy boots. ‘I can never get used to these,’ he said, placing them by the door. ‘Italians do not understand the necessity of good footwear. Unlike us.’
‘Us?’
‘We of the East.’
Theon considered. The sought kinship was a small enough point to concede. ‘They do not. But they need thick boots to kick their wives and walk down the sewers they call their streets.’
Hamza laughed. ‘Do they not?’ He stepped into the room, glanced around, his face revealing nothing. ‘I am sorry for the surprise of my visit. But those filthy streets are filled with young men seeking mischief this night. And they begin their search in taverns. One of my hue …’ he gestured to his face, ‘is a provocation to them.’ He turned back to Theon, still at the door. ‘You have heard why they celebrate?’
‘Some saint’s birthday? Or two? They have more saints than days here.’
Hamza tipped his head. ‘Ah, my friend, I think you know. Because I think you are, how shall we say, the host of the celebration?’
‘Host?’
‘Its cause. The accord you have concluded with the Doge and the Council.’ Theon’s face did not change, so Hamza continued, ‘The force that will go to defend your city?’
‘Ah. Is that what they celebrate?’
‘Indeed. A new … crusade against the Turk.’ Hamza laid his open palm against his chest.
‘Hardly a crusade. I heard that Genoa itself does nothing. But it will not stop certain … concerned citizens going to Christendom’s aid. A few thousand men perhaps.’
‘Ah, there our reports vary. I heard a few hundred. And though perhaps they will not trumpet this, all paid for by Genoese gold.’ Hamza nodded. ‘Still, you have succeeded in your embassy, have you not? Even so few men. When I was here, trying to persuade the Doge to send none.’
He sighed … and Theon suppressed a smile. Hamza had not truly entered the room and their duel was already in its third pass. ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to two chairs before the fireplace where wood burned, ‘warm yourself,’ adding, as the Turk crossed the room, ‘Despite the danger, at least at a tavern I could offer you wine.’
Hamza stretched hands towards the flames. ‘I do not drink wine.’
‘A true believer?’ Theon stepped closer. ‘And yet not all of your faith are so … true. Did not your recent sultan, peace be with him, love the distillation of the grape?’
Hamza stared. If he knew something of the Greek, what was known in return? For the late sultan was Murad, the Great. Supreme warrior, diplomat, administrator, poet. Hamza had been his cupbearer, his confidant … his lover. It was Murad who had taken the handsome tanner’s son from Laz, educated him, trained him, loved him. Created him. Hamza had loved him in return, even for the weakness that had killed him. It was not only true belief that kept Hamza from wine. ‘He did. May Allah, most merciful, give him rest,’ he said.
‘And his son? Your new ruler? Does he share his father’s … tastes?’
Hamza looked at the Greek. There was an emphasis on ‘tastes’ he didn’t like. ‘Mehmet is a true believer too. But his passions lie elsewhere.’
‘In what?’
Hamza spoke the words softly. ‘In conquest.’
Interesting, thought Theon. Some weakness there, something to probe later, perhaps. The man turned away, shifted closer to the fire, and he was able to study his face for the first time. It was not as dark as he had claimed. Sun rather than race had given him his ‘hue’. The beard was almost fair. The eyes a pale blue. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should talk more of that. But first …’ he forestalled the Turk’s reply, ‘can I offer you anything else? Some dates and cheese perhaps? Some water? The water seller in this street is surprisingly cleanfingered.’
‘Some water, thank you.’
Theon took a step towards the bedroom to collect it, but stopped. He had opened up something in the Turk. It would be interesting to probe it further. ‘Sofia,’ he called, ‘come and meet our guest. And bring some water.’
Hamza was surprised, though he did not let it show. He did not know that Theon kept a woman there. It would be odd to parade his whore before such a visitor. But Greeks were odd. And slippery as the eels I fished for in the canals of Laz, he reminded himself. He had proved that in his first sentences.
Then Sofia came into the room – and Hamza’s breath caught. She was no whore. Neither was she a woman of Genoa. She had a different sort of darkness, and a bearing, a way of standing, that showed nothing less than nobility. Tall, graceful, with a face whose features hinted at the East, and a body that showed even through the enveloping gown.
‘This is my wife, Sofia.’ Theon waved her in.
‘Peace be with you, lady,’ Hamza said, switching to Greek, sweeping into a bow.
‘And with you, sir,’ she answered, coming forward. She went to the table and poured water into two goblets there. Putting the pitcher down, she carried them to the men. ‘Welcome to our house.’
More interesting, Theon thought. He had not looked at his wife as she came in, but kept his gaze fixed on his visitor. The Turk’s eyes betrayed him, just a little, just enough. Theon believed that, like many of his kind, Hamza would love both men and women. But the narrowing in the Turk’s eyes showed he would probably prefer the latter.
Theon shook his head imperceptibly. It surprised him when his wife provoked such reactions. He saw ice where other men saw fire. But they did not know her as he did. And there had been a time when he had wondered what the Turk was probably wondering now: what would it be like to lie with her naked?
Sofia kept her eyes lowered as she gave the goblets over. But they came up for a moment when Hamza murmured his thank you … and he was startled again. Not so much for the colour and swirl of them, that he’d only seen once before in jade from Samarkand. For the darkness within them.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen such melancholy in his whole life.
She turned – and tripped! Hamza was to her in a moment, reaching an arm to her elbow. It was a moment of contact, a moment when those eyes turned to him again – and then she freed her arm to receive what she’d tripped over, what leapt up now.
‘Ragazzo!’ she cried, scolding.
The cat twisted its neck up, purring loudly. Hamza, who had not moved away, saw the melancholy swept away and be replaced with such joy that he felt an actual, contrasting sadness. He reached out a hand to the cat, and ran a finger between his eyes.
‘You like cats, sir?’ she asked.
‘I do. Especially a handsome fellow like this.’ He scratched. ‘May I?’
Sofia released Ragazzo into his arms. The cat was completely comfortable there, even when Hamza turned him over on his back and rubbed his exposed belly. ‘Did you know, lady, that our prophet Muhammad, praise be to him always, was a lover of cats?’
‘I … I did not.’
‘Especially of this kind. The stripe on his back, the markings as if some calligrapher has dipped his hands in black ink and drawn thick rings around this grey body. But look here,’ he said, righting the cat and scritching him under the chin to lift his head. ‘Do you see what is above these stunning green eyes? This proves he is beloved of Muhammad. For has not the Prophet, praise him, blessed the animal with his own initial?’
Sofia looked – and laughed. ‘It is true,’ she sa
id, clapping her hands together in delight. ‘Look, Theon. Above the eyes. The letter “M” clear as day. I never saw it till this moment.’
She laughed again and Hamza with her. Theon frowned. When had he last heard her laugh? He didn’t truly care if men lusted after his wife. But this … complicity between them? It annoyed him. ‘And do you think that “M” is a letter used by Arabs or Turks?’ he snapped. ‘Take it away, Sofia. You know how I hate the beast.’
They both looked up at him. Hamza’s gaze was keen and Theon was angry again that he’d revealed any sort of emotion. He changed his tone. ‘It makes me sneeze,’ he explained.
‘Ah, and I wager that he loves you best of all. It is always the way. They desire those who shun them. Perhaps like Muhammad, most exalted, whose mark they bear, they seek to bring you to the one true faith – the worship of cats!’ Reluctantly he handed the animal into Sofia’s arms.
She scratched the cat between the eyes. ‘“Beloved of Muhammad.” What is that in your tongue, sir?’
Hamza considered, reaching out to stroke. ‘I would say “Ulvikul”,’ he replied.
‘Ulvikul,’ she repeated. ‘Would it be a sin against your faith to name him thus? Ragazzo is just what our maid yells at him when he steals food.’
‘Lady, from you, it could be no sin.’
There was a silence. More complicity, Theon thought, and broke it. ‘Leave us, wife,’ he said tonelessly. ‘And keep the cat with you.’
It is like a veil, Hamza thought, as Sofia’s eyes changed and she turned away. I am privileged to have glimpsed beneath it.
The two men watched her leave, and the door close behind her. ‘You are blessed in her,’ Hamza said.
‘In ways you cannot imagine,’ Theon replied briskly, sitting down. ‘Do you have a wife?’
‘Three.’
‘Three.’ The Greek’s brow wrinkled. ‘Do you not consider that excessive?’
‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged. ‘Inshallah.’ He nodded to the door. ‘But if I had one such as yours …’
‘Indeed.’ Theon decided he had had enough of the exchange, and was not sure he had got the better of it. ‘And now, shall we get to business? What is it that you wished to discuss with me?’
Hamza smiled. ‘Discuss? This meeting is more in the way of getting to know you. And what better way to know someone than … this.’ He reached again into his satchel, drew something from it – a rectangular board made of dark brown wood. It had alternating slim pyramids of teak and ebony, each tip surmounted by a crescent of mother of pearl. The board’s raised surrounding edge was studded with brass stars, inset with small rubies.
‘Do you know this game?’
Theon studied the board. He suspected it was worth more than the contents of his rooms. ‘Of course. We call it tavli.’
‘And we call it tavla. So just one letter divides us. Is that not … significant perhaps? The little that divides us, Greek and Turk?’ When Theon did not reply, he added, ‘Do you play?’
‘I have done.’
‘Then shall we play now? The good thing about tavla is that one can talk as well as throw.’
‘As you wish.’
Hamza dipped again into his bag, pulling out a smaller cloth one, tipping black and white wooden counters from it onto the board, setting them swiftly up. Four dice were amongst them. Hamza picked them up, held them out in the palm of his hand. ‘Choose,’ he said.
Theon picked the two white ones. They were heavier than he’d thought, ivory not mere bone, and as he rolled them, something glittered. He looked at the one. It was a diamond. ‘Exquisite,’ he murmured, as Hamza swung the board so that he was black.
The Turk gestured down. ‘Please.’
Theon threw a four and a deuce. A good beginning, and he covered up his fourth pyramid. Hamza did not roll. ‘Something else?’
‘We have not decided the wager. Tavla must always be played for something.’
‘But does not the Qur’an forbid wagering?’
‘You know our holy book?’
‘I have studied it. I know it speaks of various … sins.’
‘“They will ask thee about intoxicants and games of chance,”’ Hamza declaimed softly. ‘“Say: In both there is great sin as well as some benefit for man; but the evil that they cause is greater than the benefit that they bring.”’ Then he lifted his dice and added, ‘But what is life without a little sin?’ He smiled, gestured down. ‘The board is beautiful, is it not? Shall we play for that?’
‘I have nothing to offer that could compare in value—’
Hamza interrupted. ‘You have friendship. You could offer me that.’
Theon raised an eyebrow. ‘You would win my friendship … with a game?’
Hamza laughed. ‘You are right. Perhaps the playing will do that on its own. All right.’ He sat back. ‘If I win, I will take that magnificent cat.’
Theon considered. Everything his wife possessed was his – even the cat he hated. Hamza knew this. He was offering a bribe … and a challenge. Theon was always happy to accept both. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is your roll. And I already have the advantage.’
He pointed to his first roll. Hamza frowned. ‘I had not considered. My father always said he raised a fool. Allah bless me,’ he said, and rolled.
They played for a while in silence. Theon had the luck, continuing to move safely onto points, occupy them, fortify them. Hamza tried to run, was hit, returned, was hit again. Theon placed his counter on the side of the table. ‘Sodomite donkeys,’ Hamza exclaimed. ‘Your wall rises strong against me. As the wall before your city does.’
‘Indeed. As it always has. Our protector, ever.’
‘And yet a wall always has a weak point.’ He pointed. ‘If I throw double fours, I will find yours.’
‘You would need the luck.’
‘One always does – in war and in games.’ Hamza rolled. Both men drew breath as Hamza returned his counter to the table and moved it four up to hit and dispatch Theon’s.
‘So.’ Theon placed his dice on the table, leaned back. ‘Do you think you will have such luck before the walls of Theodosius?’
Hamza placed his dice down too. It was time to concentrate on the other game. ‘Inshallah. But as in tavla, we will seek ways to reduce our reliance on luck and rely instead on things we can control. On men. Many, many men. And guns.’
‘We have guns too.’
‘Some. But not like ours.’ Hamza was about to speak, took a sip of water instead. He’d already decided, in his wait outside the house, not to belabour the man before him with the blunt weapon of tallies and armaments. There was no need, not when both knew them.
Theon reached down, picked up his dice, rolled. It was a good throw. ‘Yet you forget one thing,’ he said, as he brought his man back on, covered him. ‘We have a power on our side that all your men, the largest guns, cannot overcome.’
Hamza frowned. ‘What power?’
‘We have God.’
‘But, my friend,’ Hamza laughed, ‘so do we.’
Theon studied the smile. The Turk was not there to tell him what he already knew. He was there to make an offer. Both men knew it.
‘So we come down to the will of God,’ Hamza continued. ‘You believe as fervently in your faith as we do in ours that God will decide. You know we say “Inshallah”. “As Allah wills it.” We also both know that in every battle, victory usually goes to the side that is larger.’
‘Not always.’
‘Agreed.’ Hamza leaned forward. ‘But why fight at all? Your faith abhors it. Allah forbids the shedding of blood unless absolutely necessary for some holy cause.’
‘Why fight?’ Theon fingered the dice against his palm. ‘Because you are coming to take our city.’
‘Then why not just give it to us? Save all those lives. And join us in the new city whose glory will eclipse even the brightest days of Byzantium.’
‘Join you?’
Hamza leaned even closer, his eyes glowing i
n the firelight. ‘Aye. Look at us, sitting here playing tavla, in our silken robes, in our slippers. We are not like these others …’ he gestured outside, ‘these men of Europe, with their filth-covered boots, their brawl-filled taverns. Their grudging generosity. We are men of the East. Civilised, open-hearted men. It is in our lands that the prophets arose – Moses, Isa, Muhammad, praise him. Praise them all. The Levant winds have always filled our sails and driven us to glory. We have more in common with each other than you have with … them.’
‘We worship Christ, like them.’
‘Like them? How do you worship him? You of the Eastern Church? What are you being asked to give up, to gain the begrudging aid of Rome?’ His eyes shone. ‘Only the essence of your faith. Your people hate the union you have made with the Romans. They shun your churches and riot in your streets. And when they stand on your ravaged walls as our huge army advances, they will doubt that God will hear their prayers, because their leaders have betrayed … Him.’ He raised his hand to the heavens, then let it fall. ‘All for a thousand Genoese, and the princes and bishops of Europe looking the other way.’
Theon didn’t move. Much of what the Turk said, of faiths and peoples, was true. But Hamza was not there for a theological discussion. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked.
Hamza shrugged. ‘That we do not fight. Mehmet will be disappointed that he cannot conquer. But we will have other wars. We always do.’ He smiled. ‘And he will be hailed as a holy leader for gaining all, and shedding no blood. While you of the city, men … and women, you will stay on and see it great again. I have been there. I know it is a ruin, that scarce one-tenth of the people who lived there once do so now. Help us restore its greatness, as the centre of an empire it once was and can be again.’
‘A Muslim empire.’
‘An Eastern one,’ Hamza countered. ‘And as for your faith, keep it. Keep it as you want it, not … compromised by Romans. In Islam, we do not force any to convert. You may worship as you please – though you will have to pay a little more in taxes. And what man wants to do that?’
‘Few that I know.’ Theon found he was grinding the dice between his fingers. He set them down. ‘And how do you think I can help you in this? Should I choose to?’
A Place Called Armageddon Page 5