by Rehan Khan
The camels were exhausted. Most likely they had been trudging throughout the day and were already in need of a night’s rest when Awa and Wassa had escaped with them. Worse, much worse, as they already knew, the saddlebags were empty of any water or food. The women were aware that they needed to go south-west at some point, but the way was blocked by bandits. Their only hope was to use the vastness of the terrain to elude their hunters, before then swinging back south.
‘We need to find water,’ said Wassa, her voice hoarse.
They scanned the horizon. It was dark, and only the outline of a mountain range in the distance was visible against the night sky. Mountains might house springs of water - it was as good a place as any to search. Awa craned her head round. No one was following. Not yet. She dug her heels in and encouraged the weary dromedary to speed up. Reluctantly it complied, but not before baring its teeth and snarling.
‘I know you’re not happy. Neither am I,’ said Awa, rubbing the animal on the cheek.
The mountains proved barren with barely any vegetation. The young women foraged some thyme leaves, normally used in cooking, but if things got really desperate they would eat them. Bathing in the wadi had given Awa a bolt of energy, but her belly was still empty. She alighted from her camel, to guide it through the more difficult terrain.
‘Wassa, where do you think the bandits will take the people?’
Her fellow Songhai sighed. ‘Most likely they will be sold in bazaars.’
The Songhai nation was being feasted upon by those vultures who prey on people who have lost everything. Anger towards King Askia welled up inside Awa once more. He should have protected them! What did this mean for future generations, for all those who lived on the western shores of Africa?
‘If they catch us, what will they do?’ she asked next, fearing the answer.
‘Let’s not give them the chance.’ Wassa stopped her camel, staring up at the sky. ‘When I feel that I have nothing left in this world, Awa, I look to the stars. There are so many, and they belong to everyone.’
Awa nodded, and was comforted.
They maintained their trek past dawn, until the sunlight became too overpowering, when they sought shelter in a cave. They took turns sleeping and then set off once more at night-time. The mountains had become taller and broader than before. Every time Awa thought they had reached a peak, there was a higher one to come. Surely there was no way for a tracker, no matter how good, to find them when they had taken such a convoluted path, crossing desert and mountains? They must be safe.
On the second day, they found a stream of clear water; it was only small, but enough to drink from till their bellies were full and the camels satiated. They filled their water skins and picked some figs and berries before setting off. The following morning, they rested and commenced at night once more.
Awa was feeling pleased. They had water and were finding provisions. Her strength was returning. The sheer joy of freedom was still fuelling her desire to keep running. However, the peaks were too high to scale, so they were forced to travel north-east, further away from their homeland.
As dawn broke, they found shade under a palm tree within another wadi. They ate dates, drank their fill of water. Awa took the first watch as Wassa slept. At some point in the day they swapped and Awa was soon asleep. Her peace, however, did not last.
‘Wake up,’ hissed Wassa, placing a hand on Awa’s shoulder. ‘Quiet.’ The sun was going to set soon. She indicated the area of the wadi. ‘People.’
Had they been found? After three days, when Awa was sure they had thrown their trackers off the trail, could it really be possible that they were going to be caged once more, enslaved - or worse? She rose quickly, wrapping her baggage and rolling it tightly shut. No. She was not going to be apprehended, like an animal. She would fight. She had a weapon and knew how to use it; she had already fought - and to her shame had killed - but there had been no other way. She never wanted to strike down another human being and if she was forced into combat again, she would attempt to injure, not to kill.
Drawing her sword, she crouched down beside Wassa. The women were hiding behind a palm tree, waiting to see who approached. Tethered close were their camels, entirely unperturbed by what was going on around them. Voices drew closer. They should have fled, she thought, got away before these strangers arrived. Awa peered around the trunk of the tree and saw three young men with walking sticks appear, emerging beside the dromedaries.
‘Shepherds,’ whispered Wassa.
Awa let go of the breath she had been holding.
The three shepherds came into the open area, peeking about.
‘Hello, anyone here?’ asked the tall, gangly one.
Awa eyed Wassa, who shook her head and put her finger to her lips.
‘Hello?’
Silence. The young fellow shrugged, turned back to the camels and began to untie them, saying, ‘Come, we will take them back to Tamdjert.’
‘Thieving shepherds,’ snarled Wassa, rising up. ‘Come on.’ They walked into the open. ‘Stop!’ she commanded. ‘Those are our camels.’
The men turned slowly to look at them.
‘Two women with two camels in Wadi Umar, beside the Tassili Mountains? Whatever are you doing here, my sisters?’ asked the lanky fellow. At least his tone was friendly, not threatening or condescending.
‘That is our business,’ replied Wassa, approaching them and revealing the blade dangling at her thigh. ‘And those are our camels.’
The shepherds took a step back, away from the camels. But they left them untied, Awa noticed.
‘Now leave and let us go about our business,’ ordered Wassa.
The leggy shepherd exchanged glances with the other two, and before the women could react, his companions had shoved their sticks into the camels’ behinds, causing the beasts to kick out and run, sprinting away from the wadi.
Wassa glared at the shepherds. ‘Collect up our things, Awa, we need to get our camels.’
Awa ran to the palm tree, where she had left the bedding. It was gone. She gazed around, her heart speeding up. She gripped the hilt of her weapon. Others were here. It must be the trackers from the bandit camp.
‘Our things have been stolen, Wassa,’ Awa turned and called. But she saw that the shepherds had run off - and now standing in their place was the lankiest man she had ever set eyes on. He carried a long spear, even taller than herself and his clothing resembled that of the people of the interior, where leopard and crocodile skins were commonly used. His head was shaved, as was the rest of his visible body. His eyes shone like pearls and when he smiled his teeth were like a moonbeam against his dark skin.
Wassa started to back off. Awa joined her, her weapon by her side. The giant strode forwards.
‘Run for the camels,’ said Wassa.
The giant was upon them as Awa scuttled away, scampering through the date palms, heading in the direction the camels had bolted. There was a scream behind her, and she whipped round to see the giant lift Wassa off her feet and remove her sword from her hand. He had her dangling upside down, holding her by the ankles, as she wriggled desperately to get free.
‘No!’ cried out Awa, stopping in her tracks.
‘Run!’ shouted Wassa.
Awa hesitated. She could not leave her friend. Not now. At that moment, she found herself confronted by a man with a crooked face; it drooped to one side, as though he had taken a blow there at some point. There was a nasty scar on his forehead and right eyebrow. He wore a leather belt which held various knives, and a curved sword was sheathed in its scabbard. His skin was dark brown.
‘Odo is the name,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘You may have heard about me?’
Awa shook her head, her weapon raised, as Wassa’s cries rang out behind her.
Odo spat onto the ground and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Uneducated sorts haven’t.’
‘Stay back. I know how to use this,’ said Awa, brandishing the weapon.
‘I kno
w you do. It’s why they sent me after you,’ said Odo.
‘They?’
‘Bandits, thieves, desert snakes. They have many names. They’re interested in making money. So am I. Defeating all those men with your weapon on your own - impressive.’ Odo slowly drew the curved sword from its scabbard.
‘And?’ said Awa.
‘And I don’t get impressed so easily,’ said Odo. His eyes flickering, he lunged at her with his blade. Awa blocked, he knocked her back then swung at her head. She ducked, heard the weapon strike the ground where she had been standing. He was quick. He swung from the right, she blocked, then kicked him in the stomach. He took a step back, smiled, and pounced once more, this time from the left. Awa parried, twisting around and under her blade, trying to force his curved sword out of his hand. He read the move, softening his grip on the hilt of his weapon, so it spun around in his hand, without breaking loose. They separated.
‘Nice move,’ said Odo. Once more he attacked and Awa brushed away, spinning past him. She sliced, aiming for his legs, but he pushed himself away, so her blade cut through air. ‘Clever. Oh yes - they weren’t wrong. You are skilled. More than you know it yourself.’
Awa suddenly felt herself being lifted off her feet. The giant! He had sneaked up behind her. She swiped the weapon at him, but he wasn’t within reach. So she swung her body instead, flicking into range with her weapon and aiming at his arm, whereupon he immediately dropped her, as the blade had missed his wrist by a whisker. She was rising when Odo stepped on her blade.
‘Men like me survive in a world where dog eats dog,’ he told her.
Then the giant hauled her up like a sack of potatoes and carried her away over his shoulder.
9
LOST MY SOUL
ONLOOKERS CRAMMED THE CENTRAL THOROUGHFARE which ran through the Fatih district of Istanbul. Will was amongst them, for Sultan Murad III and his vast entourage were due to pass through there on their way out of Istanbul for a hunting trip in the cooler interior. Citizens and visitors from all over the empire lined the streets, craning their necks in anticipation of seeing the Grand Turk himself in person. Business was healthy for traders, particularly merchants selling plums and cherries.
Will joined Gurkan at the front of the crowd beside a stall where the young Konyan purchased two coconuts They were joined by other cadets from their fort, all of them dressed in the loose trousers and tunic worn by Janissaries. Oddly, wearing a uniform helped: merchants knew you earned a living wage, which made them amenable. Officials acknowledged the cadets politely enough, but their expressions were wary. From what Will could see, the Janissaries aroused a mixed response, ranging from respect to hostility.
‘The stallholder says these are the best coconuts in Istanbul,’ Gurkan told Will, handing him a scalped fruit, with a small hole at the top of it.
Will placed it to his lips and tilted his head back; the refreshing coconut water went down a treat. ‘Very good,’ he said, swallowing, then added, ‘but not the best. The fellow over at Suleymaniye has nicer coconuts.’
The fruit-seller overheard. ‘My friend,’ he called out. ‘That rascal over at Suleymaniye is mixing sugar with his fruits. Do you really trust him, or me - a man with an honest face?’ He smiled disarmingly, making Will burst out laughing.
‘Dear sir,’ he responded. ‘You have the highest quality fruits in Istanbul, to equal those of the fruit-seller of Suleymaniye.’
The man bowed, satisfied, before turning to his next customer.
Will still had trouble absorbing how much his life had changed in the past three months. He had literally been at death’s door - and now look at him - living happily in the world’s greatest city. It was a sign: God was preparing to send him home to London! The smile then died on his lips as he reminded himself that if his world had changed so fast for the better, it could also swing back just as quickly.
The crowd stirred. The royal entourage was approaching. It was then Will noticed a strange-looking fellow, standing a little back from the crowd. He was watching the people, not the procession. How peculiar. The man was dressed in fine court robes, dark blue and grey in colour, with streaks of orange, red and yellow. Even his turban was colourfully decorated. The man himself was of medium height, with a long face, wide forehead, a narrow beard and moustache. But it was his eyes which were the most striking, for in them Will discerned mischief. In fact, the last time Will had seen eyes like that was in the seven-year-old nephew of Hakim Abdullah in Marrakesh. The boy caused his parents no end of grief with the pranks he played on people of all ages.
Sensing Will’s scrutiny, the man looked up and caught his gaze before Will turned away, embarrassed.
‘They’re still far away,’ Gurkan was saying.
Will took another swig of his coconut water - so refreshing in the late-summer heat – noticing that the mischievous-looking man had disappeared.
‘Tell me again, where is this place you call England?’ Gurkan wanted to know.
Will shrugged. Any description of his homeland always seemed to end with the Turks lumping England as a province of France. None of the cadets knew anything about England, particularly its Queen. By contrast, the names of the Hapsburgs, such as Charles I and Phillip II rolled off people’s tongues in Istanbul. As did the names of al-Mansur, ruler of Morocco, and Shah Abas I of Persia. Cadets had even heard of the recently deceased Russian Tsar, Ivan the Terrible. Yet the name Elizabeth . . . well, you would be hard-pressed to find anyone who was aware of the Queen of England.
‘It’s to the north of France, across the sea,’ said Will.
Gurkan nodded. ‘I once saw a map of the world, a copy of the one drawn by al-Idrisi. I don’t recall seeing England on it. But my friend, I hear there is a newer map in the Topkapi Palace, owned by the Sultan. Maybe on this map we will find your homeland.’
Will smiled. ‘I can assure you it’s there.’
Over the past two months Will had come to realise that the English were rather insignificant when it came to the powers living around the Mediterranean. He had met very few Englishmen whilst abroad and none so far in Istanbul. Yet he had encountered legions of Venetian, French and even Spanish merchants scouring the Ottoman capital for goods, mixing with local buyers. Earlier in the week, he had passed the Venetian Embassy, outside of which there was a trade fair. Even Commander Mehmet Konjic had turned out to be a Bosnian from the Caucasus.
Excitement rippled through the crowd, and Will caught sight of the massive entourage of the Sultan. It went back as far as the eye could see. Cavalrymen wearing red robes with golden sashes rode decorative horses; there were at least a hundred of them. They were followed by foot soldiers, carrying ceremonial poles with the colours of the Sultan fluttering on flags. Behind them were German-manufactured horse-drawn carriages. Though the Hapsburgs were in an ongoing war with the Ottomans, this did not seem to stop commercially-savvy merchants from trading the most advanced modes of transportation made in Germany. The carriages were decked out in gold and brass, adorned with silken sashes, each steered by a driver sitting atop a gloriously-padded velvet cushion. The first few carriages contained lesser royals, their faces sober as they passed.
‘It is Sultana Safiye, the consort of the Sultan,’ said someone standing close to Will. The Sultana waved as she passed by, and the crowds responded by cheering her. She was sitting alone in her carriage.
‘Where is she from?’ asked Will, leaning on Gurkan.
‘She is Albanian,’ said Gurkan.
The next carriage was even more ornately constructed, with gold trimmings and embossed wheels. In it sat Sultan Murad III, also alone. His bearded face solemnly stared at the crowds. In fact, the Sultan appeared bored. Will imagined that travelling alone in such a mighty carriage with no one to converse with, would not be very entertaining. The crowds didn’t seem to care that the Sultan was not giving them the time of day and roared their approval.
‘My God, it’s him, the Sultan,’ said Gurkan, looking stunned.
The young Janissary started jogging to keep pace with the carriage, as did others.
‘Sultan Murad. May you live forever!’ someone cried out, followed by others repeating the slogan.
Will watched his friend get caught up in the chants, as the crowds cheered and ran alongside the royal transport. Will was tempted to join him, but seeing the Sultan in the flesh didn’t have the same appeal for him.
‘His brothers didn’t live long,’ said a voice beside Will, making him jump. He turned to see the man in the court robes and colourful turban standing right behind him.
‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ enquired Will.
‘The name is Huja.’
‘I am Will Ryde.’
‘Ah, so you’re English. Haven’t seen an English since Harborne,’ said Huja, rubbing his chin with his fist so the hairs of his beard poked in different directions.
‘You said something about the Sultan’s brothers?’ Will reminded him.
Huja turned to stare after the disappearing carriage of Sultan Murad III. ‘That one,’ he said, ‘strangled all five of his brothers when he ascended the throne.’
Will stared at Huja in shock.
‘And his son will do the same,’ said Huja. His hands clasped behind his back, he began to walk away from Will.
‘Is that why he looks so indifferent?’ Will wanted to know.
Huja stopped, turning around to look at him. ‘All men are afflicted with some burden or the other,’ he said, ‘and one can be fooled into thinking a fellow is uncaring when all he is, is heart-broken.’
‘Wait, who are you, Huja?’
‘Men such as I, have no ambitions. All my actions must be for the sake of the Creator,’ said Huja, setting off again. ‘I am often told that the Sultan’s greatest treasure is a wise adviser.’
‘Are you his adviser?’ Will asked, following him.