by Rehan Khan
As she remembered that moment, the young woman’s eyes became moist. She put the amulet to her lips and kissed it.
Both armies were spread out on raised ground, with the plain dipping between them. The battle was to be fought in a natural basin, rocky and pockmarked with patches of uneven ground. Awa tightened her grip on her bow. They would stop the Moroccans, she vowed, and then she was going to return home. The Moroccans had already plundered the rich salt mines of Taghaza in the north and if they were not stopped at Tondibi, then the capital Gao was in danger of falling. The Songhai army vastly outnumbered the Moroccans, eighty thousand to their twenty thousand, and King Askia had even brought one thousand cattle to create confusion and stampede the invaders from Marrakesh. The result was a foregone conclusion - yet doubt gnawed at Awa.
She watched King Askia deliver a short address to his officers; she was too far away to hear but it ended with him raising his sword and the chant of God is Great confidently ringing through the army. Awa stared over at the Moroccans who also beseeched the same God for victory. Whose prayers would the Divine answer?
‘It is wrong, my sister,’ said Suha, standing beside her. Her fellow noblewoman was unusually tall and was often mistaken for a man from behind. ‘They are Muslims, we are Muslims. We should not fight.’
‘I agree - but raising the sword aloft is sometimes the only way to make the other side stand down,’ Awa replied.
‘If women sat on war councils there would be less fighting and more reconciliation,’ said Suha.
Awa imagined women sitting on war councils: they would consider the safety of the children and how to protect them; they would bear in mind the harvest and how to nurture it; they would reflect on future generations, and what legacy they should leave to make life better for all. In fact, if there were to be an all-women war council, Awa could not imagine them ever going to war.
‘You have a point, Suha,’ she acknowledged, and tested her bowstring, flexing it back and forth. A year’s rigorous training had built muscles in her arms: she still remembered how, the first time she lifted a bow, she could barely draw the string back a third of the way.
The religious scholars of the Songhai had issued a fatwa, which proclaimed that they were fighting a defensive war, so spilling the blood of a fellow believer in the field of battle was permissible. The scholars also made it clear that if the enemy showed remorse, then it was better to be clement, for God would only be merciful to those who exhibited mercy to others.
It was time to move. The infantry were lined up before her in two long blocks made up of thousands of men. The archers, predominantly women, stood behind, and the cavalry were arranged on either flank. Their battalion commander ordered them forward, keeping pace with the infantry. They strode, then jogged, before breaking into a run, crossing the ground towards the Moroccans, whose smaller infantry advanced with equal speed. The morning air was hot, with little wind. Awa felt a sense of exhilaration as she raced into the basin. The red flags of the Moroccans fluttered behind their lines and Awa noticed six great cannons, placed in the space before the enemy cavalry. She had heard of such weapons. Surely the Moroccans would not fire, when their own forces were deployed at the front?
‘Halt!’ Their battalion commander pulled them up. ‘Ready position!’
Awa drew an arrow, nocked it to the string and kept the bow facing the ground. Ahead of her, the Songhai infantry tore into the enemy ranks, cutting through their smaller number. Swords and shields clashed, metal on metal. Each Moroccan soldier wore armour to protect most of his body; the Songhai men did not. It made the defenders far more mobile but also left them exposed to being caught by a blade or spear. Men fell on both sides, but it was clear the Moroccans were coming off worse from the initial engagement. The archers studied the melée, looking for any enemy troops who might break through. None did.
The Moroccan infantrymen suddenly rushed back towards their own ranks.
‘Cowards,’ snorted one of the archers beside Awa.
‘I would rather die fighting than die of cowardice,’ said another.
The Songhai infantry were chasing the retreating Moroccans when a whole row of gunmen emerged from behind the lines of Moroccan cavalry where they had been hiding. The Songhai infantry were running directly into the line of arquebus fire.
‘Get back!’ Awa urged them uselessly, the words catching in her throat.
In their wild charge forward, the Songhai infantrymen didn’t see the arquebusiers’ long guns. Bang. Bang. Bang. Puffs of smoke filled the horizon as the Songhai soldiers collapsed to the ground. Further rounds tore the infantry apart. Hundreds fell. What could they do, against such weapons?
‘Retreat!’ bawled Awa’s battalion commander.
The archers turned and sprinted back, just as a new set of gunmen fired another volley, the smell of gunpowder drifting over the basin. Awa saw that the Songhai cavalry were now on the move, their camels and horses trotting. Ahead of them thundered the cattle. She retreated, pulling up at the base of the higher ground and watched as the cattle led the charge towards the Moroccans, kicking up an enormous screen of dust and sand, the accelerating Songhai cavalry beside them.
Across the basin she heard a fresh round of arquebus fire. Some of the cattle fell, but the majority kept charging. King Askia’s plan to stampede the enemy lines was going to work. The herd picked up speed.
Then a terrifying sound echoed for miles around the flat plains. The Moroccans had fired three of their cannons. The impact shook the very ground Awa stood upon. Suha grabbed her by the arm.
‘What devilry is this?’ she said.
‘Cannons,’ said Awa, her voice trembling. Her father had instructed her about such weapons. He said the Moroccans employed a new form of warfare which the Songhai had not adopted. Perhaps this was how the Moroccans had defeated the Portuguese at the famous Battle of the Three Kings which she had learned about from her tutors.
Awa gazed down at her bow. What good would that be, against such monstrous weapons? As she peered across the basin, hundreds of cattle burst through the smokescreen, careering back. Spooked by the cannons, the beasts were ploughing into the retreating Songhai cavalry and knocking riders from their mounts. Boom. Boom. Boom. Further cannon fire added to the terror as the animals stampeded straight towards her.
‘Oh no!’ whispered Awa.
The battalion commander raised his arm, drawing the archers into a straight line. ‘Hold your positions.’
The command was issued, up and down the line. Surely it was the wrong order, with the herd charging at them?
‘Arrows ready!’
‘I’m scared,’ sobbed Suha.
Awa checked the arrow in her bowstring, drawing strength from the prayer her amulet contained: it would shield her. The cattle were close. A group of Songhai cavalrymen on camelback raced over the open ground ahead, trying to divert some of the cattle away from what remained of the infantry and the archers. Some cattle re-routed to the side, but others thundered on, bowling over the riders on their camels, heading for the archers.
The sound of terrified cattle filled the air, peppered by the cries of fallen Songhai soldiers. Awa ran, but got caught on the shoulder and pushed into the path of a bull, which knocked her flat on the ground. She rolled athletically to the right, rising as quickly as possible, only to find herself face to face with another bull, whose horns she grabbed, using them to swivel up and over its back to land on her feet.
As the flow of cattle slowed, Moroccan riders mounted on horses and camels burst through the dust, swords and lances swinging. Awa immediately went down on one knee, drew an arrow - hesitated. They are believers, like me. But on seeing a rider cut down a Songhai soldier, she let loose her arrow and it caught the Moroccan in the eye. He fell from his horse. For the first time in her life, she had killed another human being. Her stomach felt heavy, her head light. She had to support herself by placing the palm of her hand on the ground.
Surveying the carnage unfol
ding around her, she saw that some of the women archers were being carried away on camels. Where was Suha? Awa reloaded her bow and fired, hitting the next Moroccan in the shoulder. His armour, however, deflected the arrow. Spotting her, he snarled, readied his sword - and charged. She pulled another arrow, nocked it, raised her bow . . . but he was upon her and she darted away from his horse. By the time he had swung his mount back towards her, she had already taken up position on one knee and fired, striking him flush in the neck. The Moroccan collapsed, sliding off his horse. Alert to the sound of hooves behind her, Awa flung herself across the ground. A tall Moroccan soldier sprang off his horse, making a grab for her. She twisted away, snatching the sword of her dead opponent. The advancing soldier paused, smiled evilly, then drew his weapon. He is not showing remorse. I cannot be clement.
Other riders streamed past, dust kicking up. Where were all the archers? Was she alone on the field of battle? Planting her feet, she prepared to fight for her life.
The Moroccan approached, still grinning. He was enjoying this: he underestimated her. Good. She pretended she was having difficulty holding the sword. Losing patience, he attacked. Awa dived under his strike, came up behind him and swung the sword straight across the nape of the soldier’s neck. His sword clattered to the ground, then he hit the ground face first.
Awa spun around, but before she was able to take on the next assailant, she felt a crack against the back of her head. Everything went dark and she collapsed.
3
PRAYER OF JONAH
STARLIGHT WAS A WELCOME RELIEF. Exhausted, Will slumped down beside the cannon. His thighs and lower back ached, yet he had no complaints: being a slave on deck was a world away from being a galley slave in the hull. The Moroccans had just completed the night prayer, which asked for God’s mercy and grace. He certainly needed some of it, Will thought, if he was to get back to London. Closing his eyes, and for the first time in months, Will too prayed. He begged God to guide him home, so he could be with his mother, hear her laugh, smell the lavender she always had about her person.
He vaguely remembered the moment when, as a small boy of five, he was taken from her.
She had left him on the street corner, so she could duck into one of the wealthy houses for whose inhabitants she stitched clothes. She had told him to stay where he was. He did. But then a hulking great fellow marched up, lifted him up off his feet, clamped a cold hand across Will’s mouth, and strode away with him down cobbled lanes, heading for the docks. Will didn’t remember much else, having blanked a lot of it out, until he met the kind Hakim Abdullah, who took him under his wing years later in Marrakesh.
Violence was all Will had experienced in the galleys. Yet often lying awake at night, chained to his oars, he wondered whether peace was just a matter of each individual making an effort to better understand another. Unfortunately, in this unruly world, a man of peace would be a pauper, for violence was the only currency that mattered . . .
‘Will.’ He opened fearful eyes to find Jamal standing over him, holding out a steaming bowl.
‘Eat,’ the Moroccan said kindly.
Will scrambled up, receiving the meal with grateful hands. It was a lamb stew, with chickpeas and vegetables.
Noticing his surprise, Jamal said, ‘You are part of the crew.’
‘Thank you,’ said Will. He had grown up never expecting anything from anybody. That way, he would never be disappointed. Jamal strolled away and Will devoured the stew before it could be taken away. He realised he had eaten too fast when his stomach ached and he had to stand up again.
The night sky was clear, glittering with stars. He located the North star and then cast his gaze to the west of it. Somewhere in that direction was his homeland - and for the first time he felt a sense of hope. Maybe his luck was finally about to change.
His eyelids were drooping and he decided to lie down where he was, beside the cannon, snuggling himself inside a large piece of canvas used to cover the ropes. Something told him to pull the canvas fully over him, the image of the Portuguese cutting his throat whilst he slept having something to do with it. He yawned and before he knew it, he was asleep.
Will woke with a start. Cannon fire - as loud as he had ever heard it - and the cries of men all around him. Then he remembered where he had slept, and hurriedly yanked the material off, sitting up to take in his surroundings. The sky was still dark, but the first glimmers of dawn were overhead. The deck of the Al-Qamar was filled with sailors running to their stations, slipping and sliding, knocking into one another, grabbing at ropes and rigging to stay on their feet.
When Will stared across at the starboard side, he caught sight of the largest Spanish galleon he had ever seen, emerging from the early morning fog. It dwarfed the Al-Qamar. His mouth fell open as he saw the Spanish cannons take aim at the Al-Qamar and instinctively flung himself to the deck as the artillery-shot ripped into the hull. The Al-Qamar lurched to starboard. The next volley hit home and the vessel toppled to port, before momentarily righting itself. Then Will heard the most awful splitting sound. The hull was coming apart.
Where was First Officer Said? Where was Jamal? The Al-Qamar juddered violently. Around them was nothing other than miles and miles of deep water. Will wasn’t prepared to try his chances with the Spanish, who had recently failed to invade England with a great armada. They would most likely torture him as a heretic. He imagined the Portuguese administering the punishment with relish.
As the ship settled in the water, men were leaping overboard, crying out in their terror. The vessel tilted and Will toppled back. Under the canvas were some blocks of wood, which had been used to adjust the height of the cannon. Will stared at the canvas, then at the blocks of wood - then at the rope which was used to tie the rigging. It might work!
Scrambling to his knees, he slammed four blocks of wood together, each one the length of his arm and the thickness of his chest. He found a small piece of the canvas, tightly wrapped it around the wood blocks and then used the rope to tie a reef-knot. The deck of the Al-Qamar angled further, the wood splintering, permitting Will to glimpse down into the hull. The galley slaves were still chained to their benches. In the darkness below he saw the Sudanese drummer, trapped. What could he do?
Nothing. He could do nothing to save them. He should have been one of them, he should have drowned. He still might.
Lifting his home-made float, he jumped off the back of the vessel into the waves. Salty sea-water immediately filled his mouth. He went under for a few moments, then resurfaced and found the blocks of wood in the canvas still floating and the rope holding. He seized the float, bobbing up and down as the waves swished around him. As he stared back towards the sinking vessel, he felt the ship’s weight dragging him down. Will clung to his blocks of wood and tried to kick away from the ship, but he was being sucked downwards. He felt his fingers loosening. Then he went under.
He shot down, straight as an arrow, murk enveloping him on all sides, following the trajectory of the Al-Qamar as it sank like a stone. Other bodies were floating, men dying in the water. The drag on him finally lessened and he was able to swim towards the surface, where he emerged, choking, weeping, gasping for air.
The Spanish vessel had dropped anchor, and was now picking up Moroccan sailors who swam towards it. Will gazed around for his blocks of wood and through sheer good fortune located them about fifteen yards away. He swam towards the float, clutching at the rope, before heading away from the Spanish ship. He would rather take his chances with the sea than the vengeful Spanish.
The next few hours passed quickly. The summer sun reflected its heat off the Mediterranean, and it wasn’t long before Will felt his skin burning. He had spent two years below deck, with barely any exposure to sunlight, and now he was getting it in full measure. Thanks to the previous night’s meal, it wasn’t till afternoon that he felt his stomach grumble loudly. He had not seen any other vessels, nor any sight of land. He knew England was to the north-west and he optimistically ori
ented himself in that direction. It was impossible to know how close he was to land. He kept swimming, then resting on his canvas blocks, swimming, then resting. The waters were relatively calm and the current took him in the right direction. He was still alive. How? It was a miracle. Maybe God was sending him home to his mother.
By sunset, Will’s eyes were closing and he knew he was in danger of falling asleep and drowning. He had to stay afloat, but he also had to get some sleep. Unfortunately, the wooden blocks weren’t large enough for him to actually lie down on or even sit on. They were just enough for him to hold onto, for which he was grateful.
Starlight danced around him, as the moon showed a little more of itself than the night before. The wind had been strengthening steadily; now he felt a powerful gust strike his face, followed by a wave curling around him, lifting him higher and then lowering him. There was going to be a gale, so it was even more imperative that he hold on. Will undid one of the ropes, then tied a knot around his left wrist, before securing it back round the wooden float.
The sea swelled, elevating him enough to see large waves approaching from the north, before he plunged down once more. Maybe he was destined to die alone, after all, out at sea. Will remembered Hakim Abdullah telling him the story of the prophet Jonah who, when he was distraught within the belly of the whale, cried out to God for help. Will wished he could remember the words of the prayer Jonah had uttered, but he couldn’t.
The water slapped his face, stinging his skin with its force before the next wave lifted him then plummeted him into darkness once more. Will squinted upwards. The blocks of wood flailed around, sometimes over him, other times below him.
Dear God. Please, I need Your mercy. The wind increased. If the sea could speak, he thought blindly, it would be screaming at him. He was flung sideways, then forced deep underwater, further and further into the gloom, till there was no light, there was no hope.