by Rehan Khan
‘The Sultan is the most powerful man in the world. His supremacy is based on winning wars, yet all the people want is peace. Whether he is adept at this . . . well, that is quite another matter.’
The fellow possessed an acuity of thinking which left Will completely confused.
‘I lost it,’ said Huja.
This fellow didn’t make sense and kept shifting the conversation from topic to topic. Will didn’t want to appear rude, but he had to know. ‘What did you lose?’
‘Something very important.’ Huja got down on his hands and knees, fine robes dragging on the ground, and began to scramble about on all fours.
The fellow was surely crazy. Will meandered over, wary of being associated with a public fool.
Huja stared up at him. ‘Will you help me find it?’
Will glanced around. No one else seemed to be paying much attention so Will also got down on his hands and knees and pretended to help Huja with his search, more out of pity than anything else. After a few minutes of going around in circles, he asked: ‘Where did you lose it?’
‘In the Topkapi Palace,’ said Huja.
Will jumped up. ‘Topkapi! But that’s on the other side of town. Why are you looking here?’
Huja picked himself up off the ground, dusting his robes. ‘Because the light is better here,’ he said, pointing at the ground.
Will shook his head. ‘The light . . .’
‘Never mind,’ said Huja, shooing Will away. ‘It will turn up.’ The strange fellow then did a little skip and walked away.
Will called after him: ‘Wait! What did you lose in the Topkapi Palace?’
Huja turned back to look at Will with sorrowful eyes. ‘Why, my soul, of course.’
10
MORE THAN A MATCH
DUST ROSE FROM THE MOVEMENTS of the gladiators practising their newly acquired killing skills. Before the sand particles settled, they thrust blunt weapons at one another in mock fight sequences. Awa was confident with her use of weaponry; other women at Camp Dido were not. She watched as many of the dark and brown-skinned combatants struggled with lances or swords. Taking a cupful of water in her hand, she poured it over her head, letting it stream down her face and neck. The weather in the north was cooler than in Songhai territory, but it was still brutally hot. She then drank, quenching her thirst, before collecting her wooden sword and returning to the practice area, where she set about performing the movements they had told her to drill. Thrust forwards, step back, swing right, leap into the air, crouch, turn full circle, pitch left, jump up, bring the sword down. Repeat.
Weeks had gone past, some of the worst of her life. It felt as if she was back in the slave wagon, penned in from all sides. She never felt safe. Yet somehow, she was still alive: the Creator had chosen to keep her in this world.
Each day started at dawn. The women were told to wash, before preparing themselves for early morning drills. Prayers were discouraged, leaving Awa and many others unsatisfied. She took to waking up well before sunrise, meditating and praying before returning to sleep. Being in an environment where practising her faith was discouraged only made her more determined to cling to what she knew. So she knelt at the end of her bed every morning, praying to God for mercy and the well-being of her father.
After their capture in the Tassili mountain range, Awa and Wassa had been tied atop a single camel by Odo and the giant Ja, eventually arriving at a training camp in a nondescript dusty town. Odo said he would be back in a few weeks, when he would take them north where Awa would entertain paying onlookers with her martial prowess. Camp Dido, she was told, was named after a great Queen of the destroyed city of Carthage, and contained only women. They were fenced in by a wall made of stone and metal spikes.
It was abhorrent to ask any human being to maim and kill another for the pleasure and profit of the public. The scholars of Timbuktu had described the Romans’ love of gladiatorial games, the purpose of which was to keep the populace distracted by the trivial. And now Awa herself had been drawn into the same kind of circus.
She twirled the hilt of the sword in her hand. The skin on her fingers was callused from gripping a series of sword-hilts, lances and spears over the past few weeks. Mosquito bites followed by gladiatorial training had put paid to any notions of refinement she may have once possessed. Camp Dido drilled her hard, in running, lifting, pulling and weapon skills. They knew what it would take to survive in the arena.
The instructor called them over. He was a Spanish soldier of fortune named Tome, who had made his own mark in the gladiatorial ring and was now retained to train the women at the camp. He wasn’t particularly tall, but his squat muscular frame looked powerful.
‘Form a large circle, sit on the ground,’ ordered Tome. The women complied.
‘When you enter the arena, you will face an opponent in a fight to the death. To the death. Sometimes, those in charge like to make things harder. They’ll pit you against two, maybe three or even four opponents at a time. Remember, the crowd want to be entertained, and this is your sole purpose in life now. Bring joy to the crowd and you survive another day.’
Awa smiled at Wassa. Odo had given firm instructions to keep them apart. They were allotted separate huts to sleep in and were only able to have brief conversations over meals. Awa knew that isolation was making her selfish. She had heard reports of what happened to those unfortunate women who failed to reach the standards required in the camp - and the stories were warning enough to make her concentrate on the task at hand. Her life depended on it, and the promise she had made to herself to one day return to the sleepy corridors of her father’s university.
‘You.’ Tome jerked a thumb at Awa. ‘Up here.’
She rose and joined him immediately, for Tome was quick to anger. She had seen him strike out at others when they dragged their feet or showed insufficient enthusiasm for the task at hand. He picked out two other women and told them to line up against Awa.
‘Attack her together,’ Tome ordered.
The women exchanged glances.
‘Do it!’ he snapped.
They lunged with their wooden swords. Awa leaped back and out of range, before circling right, creating space. She took a step forward and they both retreated. Awa skipped and lunged at one woman, before swerving and knocking the sword out of the hand of the other. She then aimed a blow at the legs of the first, pulling up at the last minute with her wooden sword, so as not to actually complete the strike.
‘Good,’ said Tome. ‘She sensed hesitation in these two and acted on it. Awa, stay. You two, sit.’ He pointed at three others and ordered them up. ‘Repeat.’
Taking a deep breath, Awa faced her new opponents. They circled her with caution. One at the front, one behind and the other between. Awa stayed on her toes, ready to move when the first attack came. She would not strike first, for fear of exposing herself to a counter-attack. Her father said martial skills came naturally to her, as poetry to him. Was it really true? She wanted to be a mathematician and poet like him, not a fighter, but God had given her these abilities and she was grateful they kept her alive, even if the end was inevitable and she would die in the gladiatorial arena.
The first woman to lose patience rushed headlong, quicker than Awa anticipated. Awa twisted away from the sword strike, and as the woman went past her, she tapped the back of her opponent’s neck with the edge of her wooden sword. The woman stepped out of the fight. Awa used her momentum to jump towards one of the other women, landing on the ground and hitting her on the back of her ankles, causing her to tumble, before Awa placed the tip of her blade on her neck. She too was out. Awa immediately snapped back, sensing the third woman was about to tag her with a weapon. Sure enough, the woman raised her weapon high and brought it down. Awa blocked. The woman swung from the right. Awa dipped under the blade and as the woman’s momentum took her to the left, Awa went down on one knee and drove her wooden sword against the side of the woman’s stomach. A real blade would have opened a fatal wound
. The woman dropped her weapon in submission.
Awa breathed a sigh of relief, but then heard footsteps behind and instinctively rolled away from the attack as Tome came at her with a wooden sword, thrusting into the empty air behind her.
The Spanish instructor had not fought with any of them since she had been at Camp Dido. He had merely ordered them to drill with one another, shown them movements and gone through various routines. All the women sat up. Tome twisted his sword around.
‘You may also fight with men, maybe more than one. You will need to be prepared.’
Sweat dripped from her brow as Awa skipped in a semicircle, reading the Spaniard’s footwork. She waited, letting him strike. No reason for her to go on the attack against a stronger, more skilled opponent.
‘Good,’ Tome encouraged. ‘You don’t rush.’
He hoisted his weapon and brought it down. She jumped out of the way. He followed up, but this time she couldn’t move fast enough and had to fend off the blow with her sword, feeling the pain shoot up her arm. She grimaced, staggering away as he launched another powerful strike. This time she planted her feet firmly and blocked, holding the weapon with both her hands. He kicked out at her, the sole of his boot striking her in the stomach. Awa fell back, rolled away as quickly as possible, twisting then leaping back onto her feet.
‘Excellent,’ said Tome. ‘She controlled her fall, allowing herself momentum to rise.’ The instructor backed away. ‘Now Awa, you attack.’
Awa was grateful he had not persisted; she was not sure she would have been able to fend off another attack of such brute force. She took pigeon steps towards him, reading his movement, waiting till he was slightly off-balance - then she pounced, aiming for his chest. He pushed her weapon away with his own, before shoulder-barging her to the ground and placing the tip of his sword against her neck.
‘Very good,’ Tome praised her again. ‘She waited till I was off-balance before attacking, but she did not compensate for my larger size and strength. If your opponent is stronger than you, do not fight close to them. You will die.’
Rising, Awa dusted herself off. The Spaniard nodded at her. Over the weeks she had spent with him, she’d come to recognise it was his way of saying well done.
‘Take a break, get some water,’ he said.
Awa trudged back over to the pail of water. She poured some over her head, before drinking. Wassa joined her.
‘Well done, Awa. God has given you a gift.’
‘I wasn’t good enough to beat Tome,’ Awa grunted.
‘Don’t be hard on yourself. I actually thought you might win. You beat five opponents! Why can’t I believe you will defeat the Spaniard?’
‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t,’ Awa told her.
‘Why not?’
‘How would he react? Most likely starve me and lock me in that metal box they use for insubordination. No, thank you. I’ve had enough of being confined in small spaces. I’m going to keep my head down and stay out of trouble,’ said Awa. ‘Returning home to Timbuktu is all I care about.’
Her friend placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You will, God willing.’
11
GRAND BAZAAR
THE GRAND BAZAAR OF ISTANBUL was visible on the horizon as Will passed through the city, leaving the Janissary fort. On Thursday after training finished, they were permitted to go into town, initially heading off to Shiraz the coffee-seller, before an evening meal of borek – filled pastries - and meat. Merchants did not work on Friday morning before the midday prayer, so trading on Thursday nights was extended.
The unforgiving training regime left Will exhausted most evenings, but his mental and physical abilities were vastly improved. He could now duel with two opponents simultaneously. Captain Kadri had complimented him on his skills. Only the talented Gurkan, who came from the province made famous by the Sufi poet Rumi, was his better within the cadet force. Will had met some gifted but arrogant individuals; fortunately, and would be the first to win promotion.
‘The port is busy,’ said Gurkan, pointing to the sea where there was a higher than usual number of vessels.
‘Venetian delegation,’ said one of the other Janissaries.
‘Those Venetians are the best traders in the world,’ Gurkan replied.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Will.
‘They are Christians, yet defy the orders of their own Pope and trade with the Turks and the Moroccans.’
‘The Pope doesn’t want them to trade with Muslims?’ Will enquired.
‘Correct,’ said Gurkan.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Ask the Pope.’
The longer he spent in Istanbul, the more confused Will became as to which empires and peoples were allied with whom. The Catholics of Europe were against the Protestants, primarily the English and the Lutherans of Germany. Yet the Catholics, or some of them at least like the Venetians, were comfortable trading with the Muslims. Equally the Turks, Moroccans and Safavids of Persia were at each other’s throats. Will had seen embassies in Istanbul for the French, Spanish, Venetians. There had even been talk of an English merchant by the name of Harborne, who had tried but failed to establish an embassy in the past. The man Huja had mentioned him, Will recalled.
The path they followed wound down to the port, which joined the main thoroughfare of Fatih. The crowd swelled at this juncture, bodies from all nations clustered close as Will directed himself towards Shiraz, located outside the Grand Bazaar.
‘Wait, I need to buy a new belt,’ said Gurkan, stopping beside a stall. Will and the others hovered close, waiting for him.
A nearby brouhaha drew Will’s attention. Passers-by leaped off the road to safety, as a group of Janissaries displaying the insignia of the Topkapi Palace streamed into the main thoroughfare. The soldiers were searching for someone, stopping random citizens. Gurkan joined Will.
‘Come on, we should help,’ said Gurkan, as he and a few of the other cadets headed towards the Janissaries. Will wasn’t too sure about this, as the other soldiers seemed mightily annoyed and would not want some junior cadets getting in their way, so he stayed where he was. The crowd swelled in his direction and Will had to retreat into an alley.
Then someone dashed through the alley behind him. As he peered into the gloom, he saw three figures wearing dark trousers and close-fitting tops. Their faces were masked, only their eyes and foreheads showing. The Janissaries were still stopping and searching people. Were these the ones they were searching for?
‘Over here!’ shouted Will, but his voice was drowned out. He swung his gaze back towards the alley. Were they thieves? If so, they were getting away. There was only one thing for it. Will bolted down the lane after the men. The cobbled pathway was narrow and labyrinthine. He ducked to avoid lines of laundry drying overhead. A cat darted out of his way and hissed. He ran to the corner, turned - could just about make out the thieves up ahead. The one in the middle was carrying a long staff. Will sped up. Just then, a group of children skipped out in front of him. Will skidded, throwing himself against the wall on the right, before straightening and continuing to give chase. He would have a nasty bruise on his shoulder, but never mind that.
The three thieves paused at an intersection, where one finally caught sight of Will. He pointed him out, but the other two shrugged carelessly, before setting off to the left. As Will approached the intersection, one of the men was waiting for him. His assailant threw a knife. Will instinctively dived to the ground, the blade narrowly missing him, flying over his head. The man set off and Will retrieved the knife, fastened it to his belt - and gave chase.
After taking the next bend, he lost sight of them. Then a sound overhead drew his attention. The thieves had scaled the scaffolding of a building which was being painted: they were on the roof.
‘Well, that’s just wonderful,’ mumbled Will.
He grasped the frame and swung himself up, ensuring he wasn’t an easy target for a knife attack. At the second floor, he jumped onto the roof, o
nly to see the thieves fleeing in the distance. His blood was up: he chased them hard, leaping from one rooftop to the next. The rooftops were mostly flat; some had junk lying around, including buckets with holes, masonry nails, pots, even a ship’s anchor and chain, which created dangerous obstacles. The poor evening light didn’t help.
Will scanned down to the left - to see members of the public pointing up at him accusingly. Hey, I’m not the thief! He put his head down and ran. The thieves were now racing across the rooftop of the Grand Bazaar, a rickety structure, when the one who had thrown the knife at Will tripped and went down, clutching his ankle. The other two halted, studying Will, before hauling up their colleague. They now moved at a slower pace and soon Will was right behind them.
‘Stop!’ he bawled. ‘Give it back!’
‘This is not your business, boy,’ said the masked man holding the staff. As Will came closer he could see the man had very distinctive green eyes. The staff was wrapped in a cloth, fastened with three pieces of rope.
‘You’ve stolen that staff,’ said Will.
‘No - we’ve retrieved what was stolen.’
The comment made Will pause. Sensing his advantage, one of the thieves whipped out a sword and went for him. Will dived to his left and almost went right over the edge of the tin roof, had he not grabbed hold of a timber strut.
The green-eyed thief helped his wounded comrade up. The swordsman swung his blade at Will, but he wasn’t trying to strike him, Will saw, only fend him off so they had time to escape. Will charged forwards, tackling the thief. They clattered against the roof, but the thief was able to use his legs to push Will up and off him. Will flipped over and went off the edge of the roof, gripping it with his fingers at the last moment. The crowd below gasped. He peered down, hanging on for dear life: he could see Gurkan and the others amongst the crowd, as well as the Janissaries from the Topkapi. The swordsman reared above Will, weapon in hand. He put the blade against Will’s neck.