by Rehan Khan
Only silence.
4
DESERT CARAVAN
THE SUN WAS A FIERY furnace of gold, but finally it set in the west and the cosmos glittered like a million burning embers, briefly reminding Awa of poetry readings under starry skies in Timbuktu. With dusk came mosquitoes, tormenting the travellers in the caravan as it snaked its way north across the Sahara Desert.
In her home town of Timbuktu, Awa’s family had devised a system using vinegar and peppermint to deter the parasites. The whole mosquito season could pass with only a couple of bites. She feared she would not see those days again. Awa was now part of the Moroccan caravan, being transported as a slave. In the last eight weeks, she had been bitten more times than she could remember, so much so that her once-soft skin had become lumpy and rough. Awa hadn’t bathed for weeks - but that didn’t seem to bother the mosquitoes, which continued feasting on her. Not surprisingly, all fifteen women in the caged wagon smelled as awful as she did. All were Songhai. The Moroccans had separated the men from the women and then further split them by age.
One of the women in Awa’s wagon had been coughing violently for the past two days and Awa was sure she had seen blood mixed with the woman’s spittle. The sick woman was sweating, as were they all, but she was also shivering from a fever. At one point, a soldier mounted on a camel drew close to their wagon, giving the invalid a hard stare before riding on.
Daytime was too hot for travelling across the Sahara, so the Moroccans transported their newly acquired Songhai slaves and plunder at night. The journey to Marrakesh was going to take several more weeks, and travelling as part of such a large caravan meant slow progress across this most inhospitable terrain. Awa sat, her back pressed against the uncomfortable metal bars of the cage. Her stomach rumbled. The daily provision of one piece of bread and a small cup of lentil soup was insufficient. Water was scarce. The Moroccans drank first, then their animals, and finally the Songhai. What had her people done to deserve such a punishment from God? Her cheek felt wet and she wiped away a precious tear, using it to remove some dirt from her forehead.
Outside, the caravan stretched for miles. Lit by oil lamps in the night, to a bird it must have appeared like a snake of fire coiling its way across the sand. During the day, it was easy to detect where the Songhai gold was kept, for those particular wagons had soldiers clustered round them. The slave wagons near the rear were sparsely guarded, one soldier defending four or five wagons, sometimes ten. Bandits were common in the desert and with high-value cargo so closely protected, brigands often picked off lesser scraps. Awa had already witnessed a group of well-organised bandits make off with an entire wagon of Songhai slaves. They would be easy to sell to buyers in port markets along the west coast as well as in towns to the north of the Sahara.
Movement beside the caravan trail caught her attention. Two bodies, both of Songhai men, lay sprawled on the track. One still moved, pitifully raising an arm, his eyes imploring her for help. Awa could not help, only say a prayer for him in her heart. Those poor souls, too sick to be considered worth saving, were left in the desert. By midday, they would be dead. Awa knew she had to keep her strength for returning to the dusty bookshelves of Timbuktu and its glorious university. Listening to erudite scholars, with their fine legal discourse and scientific treatises - that was all she desired.
She looked up. The soldier who had passed earlier was now back with a colleague. They ordered the wagon driver to stop and open the cage door.
‘Out you get,’ said the first soldier, pointing at the coughing woman.
The other women shuffled away from the accusing soldier, leaving the sick woman alone.
‘Out, I said’ he repeated.
The sick woman placed a hand against her chest and the other up towards the soldier, imploring him to show mercy. Ignoring her, he cursed, then tied a scarf over his mouth and nose before grabbing the woman by the ankle and hauling her out. She screamed, but this only served to bring on another coughing fit. The cage door was locked and with the help of the second soldier, she was dragged away. Awa peered through the iron bars. Were they going to throw her on the track with the men? Thankfully, they stopped beside another wagon much further back, opened the doors and shoved her inside. It must be where the other sick slaves were kept.
The wagon driver urged the dromedaries on, the wagon resuming its laborious tempo through the desert. Hours later, their cage door was opened once more, but this time a woman was told to get in. She did not appear unwell, but all the inhabitants shied away from her, for fear she might be carrying a sickness.
The young woman crawled in, spotted her and said, ‘Awa?’ She was a little older than Awa, and her intricate black braids were clogged with sand. She felt her way along the wagon and sat down beside Awa.
‘I don’t know you,’ said Awa, puzzled.
‘My name is Wassa,’ the stranger said, placing her hand on her chest. ‘Salaam.’
‘Salaam,’ Awa responded, surprised at the other woman’s interest in having a conversation. Weeks on the road had passed in silence, no one having the energy to talk to anyone else.
‘They say you killed ten Moroccan cavalrymen by yourself,’ Wassa whispered.
Awa regarded her quizzically. ‘How do you know it was me?’
‘Everyone in the wagon I came from witnessed what you did on the battlefield. When others ran, you stayed, you fought and you killed. You are a hero for the Songhai.’
Awa herself had no recollection of who else had been around her, or what they had witnessed. She just remembered being separated from her friend Suha, then being alone, surrounded by cattle and Moroccan cavalry, trying to avoid the stampede and having the good fortune to fell a few soldiers.
‘I’m no hero, just a slave like everyone else,’ she stated.
‘But you fought and slew the aggressor.’
Awa couldn’t help but smile. ‘More like three soldiers, not ten.’
‘Three or ten, it doesn’t matter, you are a symbol of hope,’ said Wassa. ‘You are a warrior.’
Awa shrugged. What good had it done? All the past year’s training and she still ended up a slave. The Songhai had vastly outnumbered the Moroccans, they even had cattle, but the invaders had brought firearms and cannons. Each cannon was like a thousand soldiers. The Songhai possessed mountains of gold, why then did they not have weapons like the Moroccans? Why had King Askia not purchased these? Had they had an arsenal of weapons, she would still be safe with her family, for the Moroccans would not have attempted invasion knowing that the Songhai owned weapons of equal power. The King and his court politics were to blame. Petty rivalry resulted in disunity, and the Moroccans had preyed on this weakness.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Awa.
‘Gao,’ said Wassa. ‘My family has lived in the capital for generations. We are Julia, merchants who trade kola nuts, leather, and dates. You?’
‘Timbuktu. My father teaches at the University,’ said Awa.
‘What does he teach?’
‘Geometry and poetry.’
Wassa let out a short laugh. ‘So, the warrior is the daughter of a poet! Will you recite some verses? Something hopeful,’ she requested, placing a hand on Awa’s arm.
Awa thought for a moment, then remembered a favourite poem of her father’s.
‘Though my chains be hefty, a weight too great to bear, I endure them.
Through earth cleft by fire, I crawl, my body dried to bones.
Banished from my own land, torn from my ancestors’ plains, I submit.
For the lover seeks to return to his Beloved -
And so my journey takes me back into His arms.
Why would I not suffer, for as Jesus, son of Maryam, said:
‘This world is a bridge: pass over it, but do not build a home upon it.’
I am crossing the bridge into the next realm
For a union with The One I love.’
Wassa was silent. She nodded, then said: ‘Thank you. The Songhai are o
ne another’s shield; we are the hands which sow the seed and reap the harvest.’
Awa sorely missed her father. He was witty and studious, he was approachable yet reserved. Her eyes began to fill with tears as she remembered him. He had implored King Askia to consider a negotiated settlement with the Moroccans. It would have meant the Songhai had to pay an annual levy to Marrakesh, but at least it would have kept their culture alive.
Her father’s voice had, however, been drowned out by those clamouring for war; assuming the superiority of numbers made victory a foregone conclusion. Awa too had been infected by this euphoria, as had many of the young warriors. Her father was despondent when she told him she was leaving Timbuktu to fight in the army. He asked her to reconsider, but when he realised her mind was made up, he said he would pray for her safe return and embraced her.
Once again, tears flowed down her cheeks. Would she ever get to see him again? He was a scholar - surely the Moroccans would not kill such men of learning? Maybe he would even be asked to travel to Marrakesh and join the Court of al-Mansur. She knew it was wishful thinking, but she had to have some hope, a belief she would meet him in this world before they were reunited with her mother in the hereafter.
5
CITY ON THE BOSPORUS
THE SOUND OF RATTLING CHAINS woke him. Will opened his eyes and blinked, taking in the surroundings: a wooden hull, so he was below deck on a ship, but it wasn’t the Al-Qamar, for he had seen it sink. His hand moved down to his ankles and his worst fears were confirmed: he was shackled once more. But at least he hadn’t drowned.
Around him, strewn across a filthy wooden floor, were about ten men, all manacled, either sitting or lying. Some were Africans, others lighter-skinned Europeans. There was a lot of noise from above - sailors moving around deck, ropes being pulled, sails tied back. They must be approaching land. Would the galley slaves be allowed on shore? After two years, Will longed for the stability of firm ground. If he never saw a ship again, it wouldn’t be too soon.
To his right sat an African, a big man, with powerful arms and shoulders, a clean-shaven head and penetrating dark eyes.
‘Where am I?’ asked Will.
The African turned towards him. ‘You are on the Al-Shams.’
That meant ‘the sun’ in Arabic. It was a good omen. ‘Moroccan?’ asked Will.
The African snorted. ‘Turkish.’
‘Turks!’ mumbled Will. He had heard all sorts of terrible rumours about the Turks. They drank the blood of their enemies. They ate human flesh. They were filthy and barbarous, preferring to live in caves and deep underground, where they would drag their unsuspecting victims. Their capital, Istanbul, had once been the great Christian city of Constantinople, seat of the Holy Roman Empire. Since the Turks had taken it, they had burned it to the ground, and defaced its monuments. Now all that remained were hovels barely fit for human habitation. In Marrakesh, the Turks were hated, though he did sense that the Moroccans were envious of them, which seemed odd, if the Turks were such a backward nation.
Will straightened up, so he didn’t feel quite so dwarfed beside the African. ‘Where are we going?’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am not the Captain. But,’ he added, ‘it looks like we are coming into port.’
‘Will they let us off the ship?’
The African raised an eyebrow, replying, ‘Yes, of course. This is a ship belonging to the Janissaries.’
In Marrakesh, Will had heard about the formidable elite army corps of the Turkish Sultan, called the Janissaries. They were fearsome warriors. Split into many brigades and at all times loyal to the Sultan and his family, not only were they powerful militarily, they were also reputed to be very rich.
‘So, we aren’t going to be galley slaves?’ asked Will.
The African shook his head.
‘Slaves?’
The African nodded and pointed to Will’s fetters.
At least he was going to be on land, Will reflected - and that meant there was a better chance of escaping.
The Al-Shams gradually slowed. They must be close to the harbour wall. Finally, the vessel came to a complete stop and Will heard the ropes being fastened to secure the mooring. They had docked. The excited sailors were making a lot of noise and Will thought he heard the name Istanbul being shouted out. The notion of having arrived in the heartland of the Turks made his hair stand on end. He imagined a place of dark buildings, with fire-breathing dragons hanging off tall spires, roasting the unworthy at the command of the malevolent Sultan, who was King of the Turks.
The Al-Shams was emptying and it went quiet for a time, giving Will cause for concern that they were going to be left below deck. Then the hatch in the ceiling was opened, and light streamed in.
‘Out!’ a gruff voice commanded them. The small group of men around Will stood and started to ascend the ladder leading up to the deck. Will went behind the African. Out on deck, he screwed his eyes shut. As he grew accustomed to the brightness, he saw that the Al-Shams was a three-masted vessel, which could carry a few hundred men.
‘Whoa!’ said the African. ‘Look at that!’
Will moved his attention away from the Al-Shams to gawk out at the city of Istanbul lying before them in the early morning light. He was immediately struck by the contours of the land, hills rising and falling across the skyline. Each hill had upon it the most magnificent mosque he had ever seen. Monuments and ornately carved sculptures sat close to the mosques, and streets formed intricate passages down from the hills, towards the river where the Al-Shams had docked. Bazaars bristled with merchants and customers, bargaining excitedly. Istanbul did not look like a wicked city; on the contrary, Will had never imagined something so wondrous could exist on earth.
‘Come on, move it,’ said the sailor with a slight smile, as he regarded the dazzled faces of the slaves, shuffling off the boat.
‘Istanbul?’ Will said dreamily, to no one in particular.
‘Yes, my friend, welcome to the world’s greatest city,’ said the sailor, nudging him along.
Within moments of disembarking, Will was caught in a vast movement of people of all races, colours and ages, rushing past him as their small slave party made its way out of the harbour. The guards kept close to them, though in truth, Will could not imagine any of the slaves being able to run very far in chains.
They tramped away from the harbour and through an open square, where there was a small mosque with blue-tipped minarets, after which they passed a Madrasa, a college for Islamic instruction, in which Will observed students sitting cross-legged upon the ground. They began to walk up a steep incline. The road became narrower and rougher, and the hurly-burly of the promenade below was replaced by the sounds of young children crying, a goat bleating and two dogs fighting.
‘Keep moving,’ ordered one of the guards, who was dressed in a set of black pantaloons and a maroon tunic which came down below his hips. On his head he wore a covering which in part appeared to be a helmet, but was made of fabric. Will couldn’t tell whether it provided any protection or was merely a ceremonial piece of clothing.
As they crested the hill, Will glanced down and could still see the Al-Shams, docked in the port, but she was now a tiny speck. He had been struck on disembarking by the diverse ethnic groups. Istanbul might have been the capital of the Ottoman Empire, he thought, but it was not only a land of Turks. It was as though the whole world had chosen to come and live here!
Will felt like an idiot for having been taken in by the lurid tales he had heard about the Turks. Marrakesh was a glorious city; as for Istanbul, there was no comparison.
They descended the other side of the hill and Will eyed a set of fortified buildings in the distance; the soldiers lining it were dressed like their guards. They must be going to a Janissary fort. Their journey took them through the gates of the fort, past the barracks of the Janissaries and out into the rear of the encampment, where they were told to sit on the ground. A pail of water was passed down the line, fro
m which they could take a scoop and quench their thirst.
From behind the barracks strode a small troop of Janissaries, who were older than the regular guards. Will took them to be officers. Seeing their superiors, the guards ordered Will and the others up on their feet.
‘Stand straight, chest out,’ growled one of the guards.
The officers approached, most of them standing a short distance away, with one officer coming closer.
‘My name is Kadri, Captain of the Twelfth Brigade of the Royal Janissary Force.’
Will noticed a white-skinned officer, whose fair hair was only slightly darker than Will’s own. He was a man of middle years, who observed the slaves with a watchful eye. Could he be an Englishman?
‘The Janissaries serve Sultan Murad III and his family. Some Janissary brigades consist of members who are not Ottoman, some not even Muslim. These men are chosen, so that the Sultan in all his glory can build alliances and treaties with the regions from which these people originate. We would like to give you the chance to join us,’ Kadri declared as he surveyed them.
Will had heard about non-Muslims, such as himself, who made up part of the Janissary force.
Kadri continued, ‘The choice is thus. You may join the Janissaries, to be trained and commit your life to Sultan Murad III and his family, thereby breaking the shackles of slavery. You must be willing to spill your blood for the Sultan, at all times obey the orders of your superiors, commit yourselves to a wholesome life, train harder than you have ever done before, and never question your loyalty. Or you may return to the Al-Shams to become a galley slave.’
It didn’t sound like much of a choice.
‘All those who wish to return to the Al-Shams, take a step back,’ said Kadri.
Silence. None of the men moved.
‘Not all of you will pass the rigorous training it takes to become a Janissary. For those who do, it will be rewarding.’ Kadri waited, staring at each man, locking eyes with them, then nodding to the group.
‘Then it is done,’ he said.