by Rehan Khan
Will breathed a sigh of relief. He would train as a Janissary. He would mouth the oaths of loyalty. But at the first chance of escape, he would make a run for it. London still waited in his dreams. So did his beloved, long-lost mother.
6
BANDIT WAGONS
DARKNESS SMOTHERED HER SENSES AS the new moon shone dimly; even the stars seemed dull tonight. The caravan was halfway through its night journey, twisting through the Sahara. Awa noticed that the number of sick slaves had steadily multiplied in the wagons to the rear. In addition, those abandoned by the roadside had increased. Once they realised they were free, the uncaged slaves would try to haul themselves up and run, but being so weak and close to death, they soon collapsed and were still. Awa considered pretending to be sick and then dead, but if it meant placing her with those already infected with disease, it was not worth the risk.
‘Awa,’ hissed Wassa, pointing to something out in the desert. ‘Look.’
Awa peered into the gloom and with Wassa’s help was able to identify figures creeping up over a sand dune to her side. Bandits!
‘Maybe they will free us,’ said Awa.
‘They will sell us,’ Wassa told her.
The Moroccan soldiers had not caught sight of the approaching bandits and Awa was in two minds whether or not to alert them. Before she had the opportunity to decide, Moroccan soldiers on camel-back close to them fell silently from their mounts. Arrows! she realised. Fired with incredible accuracy. The dromedaries continued plodding forwards, exhibiting no concern about whether their rider was still seated. Soon the soldier next to Awa’s wagon was felled, as was their wagon driver, each with an arrow through his neck. Shadowy figures, dressed in loose robes, crested the dunes then started running alongside the wagons. Their faces were mostly covered, only the slits of their eyes showing. The bandits mounted the empty camels and slowly drew all of the wagons in the rear of the caravan to a halt.
As she watched, the bandits turned the wagons around and headed back the way they had come. Apparently, the theft went unnoticed by the Moroccans, so great was their caravan of treasures. Awa craned her neck to see the Moroccan caravan vanishing over the horizon.
The bandit-led wagons dipped to lower ground, continuing in the same direction for the next hour, before turning east to join a new track. Night passed into day. The bandits stopped, shaded themselves inside small tents, where they slept and woke once more before sunset. As they set off again for the evening, Awa recognised that one entire wagon had been left, containing the very sick. Even the bandits thought it better to abandon these Songhai than make the effort of selling them. Awa wondered if the woman who had been removed from her own wagon was one of them.
The food the bandits fed them was no different to what the Moroccans had doled out. Water was scarce, but there were fewer people in the new caravan, which contained about six wagons, with fifteen or so Songhai in each one. Two of the wagons consisted of women only, the others of men. At some point during the night the terrain changed; sand dunes were replaced by rocky tracts of land, views of mountains emerging and vegetation sprouting at the foot of date palms. The caravan eventually rolled into a small valley where to Awa’s surprise there was a wadi – a small valley with a streambed - with a substantial body of water.
‘More bandits,’ noted Wassa.
Those present greeted the newcomers but pointed in disgust at the wagons containing the women. A noisy conversation ensued; the bandits shouting angrily. The wagons were lined up and the ones containing the women were placed closer to the water. One of the bandits approached their wagon and smashed the lock with a hammer.
‘Come,’ he said, beckoning to the women in Awa’s cage. No one moved. ‘Come, wash.’
The prospect of water was very appealing. Awa knew she must stink as badly as the camels, but she was long past caring. Tentatively, one of the women slid out of the cage, followed by others. The bandit ushered them to the water to bathe. Awa didn’t like it. There were too many men with hungry eyes staring at them. Torches lined the route to the water. She flashed a look over at the Songhai men, some of whom gripped their cage-bars, concerned faces looking in their direction.
‘What do we do?’ whispered Awa.
‘We escape,’ murmured Wassa.
It was a bold suggestion, and one worth considering. They were only let out of the cage by the Moroccans every morning, so they could relieve themselves. Even if they had made a dash for it, there was nowhere to go in the desert. Here, however, the terrain was more accommodating, with mountains to hide in, date palms and other vegetation to feed off. This might be their last chance.
Awa followed Wassa out of the cage, head down, pacing towards the large pool of water in one corner of the wadi. Some of the Songhai women had already gone in knee-deep and now sat down, the water covering them as they washed their faces and hair.
She entered the water, Wassa beside her. It felt so good that she quickly forgot about the men and dunked herself fully under the surface, cleaning the sand out of every crevice and pore. In Timbuktu she bathed every day, sometimes twice a day, and performed five ablutions for the five daily prayers. She had prided herself on cleanliness.
The women were left for some time and Awa sat, hands and feet resting in the water, her head tilted up to the sky, taking in the cosmos. With only the stars in her line of sight, she imagined being in Timbuktu with her father enjoying the celestial show . . .
‘Out!’
The illusion was broken when one of the bandits ordered them to leave the watering-hole. Grudgingly the women began to rise.
‘Now will be the time,’ whispered Wassa. ‘Camels are tethered to the rear - if we can get to them.’
Awa nodded covertly. The women came out of the water and to her surprise and relief the bandits ushered them back to their cages. The evening weather was hot, and their clothes began to dry almost immediately. The cage containing the next party of women was now readied. The Songhai men visibly relaxed when they saw the women return unharmed.
‘Now!’ said Wassa. She sprang forward, pushing the bandit closest to her to the ground, removing his sword from its scabbard in the same movement. ‘Run!’
Awa darted in the direction of the camels. Bandits began to converge on them. The Songhai women screamed. The men, still caged, shook the bars of their prison. Awa scurried past the wagon in which she had spent the last eight weeks. When two bandits blocked her way, she sprinted at them. They looked surprised. At the last moment, she rolled forwards and went between the legs of one. She swivelled and kicked him in the rear, knocking him to the ground. The other made a grab for her, but Wassa was there and hit him with the flat of the sword upon his head.
More bandits appeared. The two runaways were surrounded, and then there was a series of screams and the clash of metal. Awa peered back and saw the other women attacking the bandits with their bare hands. Some of those surrounding her and Wassa went to quell the other rebels, but this diversion still left half a dozen armed men for the two of them to take on, with only one sword between them.
‘Stay close, try and get a weapon,’ Wassa panted as she lunged at a bandit who deftly blocked her, only for Awa to ram into him with her shoulder, knocking him to the ground, whipping his sword from his hand. Before she had a chance to stand, however, two meaty hands grabbed her from behind. She squirmed and wriggled but could not get free. Fortunately, the bandit had not trapped her arms and so she gripped the hilt of the blade and swung it back at her own head, moving at the last moment, so the blade caught the man full in the face. His grip loosened and he dropped her. She spun and cracked the weapon against the side of his jaw.
There was no time to feel relief, for she sensed somebody close and instinctively rolled away as a sword blade struck the ground where she had stood. She kicked out and struck her attacker behind the knees, and when his legs gave way, she was able to rise up and strike him under the chin with the hilt of her sword, knocking him out cold.
Wassa was on the ground and two bandits stood over her, one with a raised sword. Awa sprang forwards, driving her blade through his back. His sword dropped from his hand. The other bandit turned sideways, in which time Wassa was able to leap up and put her own blade through his belly.
Wassa grabbed her arm, nodding at the camels, but Awa shook her head and turned back towards the screaming women. They made their way around the wagon, fearful of what they might witness, but the rebellion was quelled. The bandits had most of the women back in the cage. There was nothing they could do for them.
Then one of the bandits spotted them and raised the alarm again.
‘Run!’ said Wassa.
They took off, heading for the tethered camels and leaped up on two of them. The saddlebags were empty of water, but there was no time to fill them. They would need to find a well on the way. Awa dug her heels in and her reluctant dromedary started to move, but rather too slowly, as one of the bandits was able to run up and grab her leg. She swung her sword down and he pulled away, just as the camel picked up pace and rode off behind the beast carrying Wassa.
Awa had no idea where they were headed, but exultation filled her. Surely anywhere would be better than here!
7
FREE AS THE WIND
WATER DRIPPED FROM THE TAP into the washbasin. Before the first drop splashed on the stone surface, the archer fired an arrow, striking a target dead centre, twenty yards away. Will, never confident with the bow, admired the man’s skill. He had tried to master the bow, but when focusing on technique his aim was off, and when paying attention to where he was firing, his technique fell apart. No, Will Ryde was no bowman and he knew it. He continued running around the circuit, a dirt path winding its way through and around the perimeter of the Janissary fort. He was amongst a group of cadets and every so often they passed a rider upon a horse, using the parallel track.
Weeks had gone past, some of the best of his life. It felt as if he was back in Marrakesh with Hakim Abdullah. He almost felt safe. Yet, as during his time with the quartermaster, Will knew he was still a slave. The Janissaries might not treat him as one, but he was not free to leave the battalion. He belonged to them. Still, this was a world away from being a galley slave.
Each day started at dawn, with the Muslim members of the Janissaries participating in congregational prayers at the Mosque within the compound, and believers of other faiths encouraged to meditate and offer their own thanks and prayers. Will vaguely remembered going to a church service in London as a small boy, and in Marrakesh he had witnessed Christian gatherings, but had never participated. Now, being in an environment where everyone in the morning was praying or meditating, Will was inspired to do likewise. Kneeling at the end of his bed, he prayed to God for forgiveness and the salvation of his parents.
Three meals, at appointed times, were served. The food was remarkably appetising and Will marvelled at the range of fruits and vegetables on offer, as well as the succulent meat. The day ended at sunset when the cadets were sent to their barracks. The strict regime resulted in Will adding muscle and weight; his cheeks filled out and he felt stronger than before.
The daily circuit run followed two hours of book-learning. The tutors covered a range of subjects. Some had to do with the personal development of the soldier, such as self-discipline and patience. Others were to do with diet and how to manage on rations when campaigning. There were more philosophical subjects related to the ethics of war and how to lay siege to an enemy city. And then there was the study of military campaigns fought in the past. Will had not heard of the places they studied, but revelled in his tutors’ depictions of battles fought in the Indus Valley, as far away as China and closer to home in Greece. Will was tapping into ideas he had never known existed and his brain gleefully absorbed the new material.
The instructor pulled them up on a hillock beside a pail of water, encouraging them to drink. Will wiped the sweat off his brow and took in the staggering view of Istanbul below. How could he have been so misled about the city? He ventured out once a week into town and had only just begun to discover its intricate paths and walkways.
‘Will.’ It was Gurkan, one of the other cadets in their cohort. ‘Salaam.’
‘Salaam,’ replied Will.
‘I hear you’re good with the sword,’ said Gurkan.
Will shrugged shyly. ‘Not bad.’
Gurkan smiled. ‘No need to be modest. Let’s spar after the run.’
‘Gladly.’
The instructor moved them on, down the circuit and back towards the fort. Following the exercise, they returned to the central quadrangle beside the store of the quartermaster. Of all the places in the fort, this was the one where Will felt most comfortable. The local quartermaster did not mind Will hanging around. He got useful work out of him, polishing and sharpening the weapons. It gave Will something to do and he knew he was a capable assistant. The quartermaster equipped the cadets with blunt practice blades for sparring.
Gurkan swivelled the hilt of his sword comfortably around his wrist. The young Turk from the province of Konya had an easy manner, the weapon appearing like an extension of his arm. Will had seen him spar; he was outstanding, likely the best in the group. Upon noticing Will pair off with Gurkan, the quartermaster smiled to himself. Some of the other cadets who spotted Gurkan and Will pair up, continued practising whilst keeping an eye on what was unfolding. Their circuit-instructor had returned to the mess hall, so there was an avid audience of cadets.
‘English,’ smiled Gurkan, raising his right hand to his forehead before flicking it away as a mark of respect.
‘Turk,’ said Will, bowing.
They locked their weapons before sliding them off one another and stepping back. Gurkan struck first, a swift blow which Will blocked with ease and countered by a sideways cut across his opponent’s chest. Gurkan stepped back, out of the way of the blow, swinging his blade up, causing Will to leap clear.
‘No need to hold back,’ said Will.
‘Really?’ said Gurkan. ‘Are you sure, English?’ The young Turk barrelled forwards with the tip of his sword. Will side-stepped, tapping Gurkan on the shoulder with his blade as he went by.
‘First cut to me,’ Will grinned.
‘Just letting you get ahead,’ said Gurkan, as he switched the sword from his right hand to his left. Then, at Will’s surprised look: ‘I only fight left-handed with the better swordsmen.’
Gurkan bounded forwards. Will countered. Gurkan swiped low before going wide, then low again, catching Will on the shin with the flat of his blade.
‘One apiece,’ beamed Gurkan.
Will skipped away from his opponent, watching as Gurkan swivelled the practice-blade in his left hand as though he were twirling a piece of rope. This time Will sprang at him, blade coming down. Gurkan blocked, Will went high to the right, then low to the left, switching angles, trying to break through the Turk’s defence, but Gurkan read him, knew where he was going to attack. Will then applied brute force; he was an inch taller than Gurkan and put his height behind the downward strike. Gurkan parried, then pushed Will away with the sole of his boot, causing Will to stumble backwards, losing his footing. Gurkan’s blade was at him in a flash, and with its tip he flicked Will’s own weapon out of his hand. Will’s blade clattered to the ground and Gurkan placed his weapon against Will’s shoulder.
‘Two-one!’ said Gurkan.
The ring of cadets applauded and Will couldn’t help but join in. Gurkan held out his hand and Will took it, rising up with his support. He could learn from this man, particularly how he knew where Will was going to strike. He was fast - but no one was that quick. There must have been some giveaway in Will’s technique.
‘You are too good . . . for now,’ Will told him.
Gurkan bowed, as did Will, when they noticed that the other cadets were no longer paying them any attention. Their instructor was standing close by, along with Captain Kadri, and beside him was the white-skinned Janissary officer whom Will recog
nised from his first day in the camp. Will and Gurkan spun to attention.
‘Line up,’ said the instructor. ‘Row of two.’
They fell into line.
Captain Kadri strode forwards. ‘This is Commander Mehmed Konjic,’ he said, pointing to the senior officer. ‘This fort and ten others are under his command. He wishes to address you.’
Konjic stepped closer to the cadets, saying pleasantly, ‘At ease.’ The Commander considered them, inspecting their numbers. His gaze wandered over to Will and Gurkan. ‘I notice we have two talented swordsmen. I dare say others have skills in different areas. All will be useful.’
Will could not place him. He wasn’t an ethnic Turk, nor was he English, French, German or from any other country whose accent Will recognised. Where was this fellow from - and how had he come to be so senior amongst the Turkish Janissaries?
‘You all came here through an assortment of routes,’ Konjic said. ‘Some were recruited from the countryside,’ he nodded at Gurkan. ‘Others were rescued from slavery,’ he nodded at Will. ‘You are here now, and it is your good fortune to train as a Janissary, so you can serve the royal household.’ He gazed in the direction of the main city. ‘All of you were chosen because you are not residents of Istanbul. You have no ties to the royal court. You come to this city free of attachments. And for this purpose, you are being considered for a new branch of the Janissary force, called the Rüzgar – the Wind. Consider yourselves, like the wind, unattached.’
Konjic paused, before adding: ‘We will share more details with you in due course. But for now, I am pleased to see you are making progress. Any questions?’
Will desperately wanted to ask him where he was from, but thought better of it. Konjic regarded them one more time, before marching back to the fort with Captain Kadri.
8
AN IMPRESSIVE CATCH
NIGHT VEILED THEIR PASSING THROUGH the mountainous terrain, but Awa knew it did not erase their footprints. Trackers would be on their trail. They needed to put distance between them, or risk recapture. It was so good to be free - but she hoped their escape had not led to repercussions for the Songhai left behind.