by Rehan Khan
‘If you came across the other two thieves, would you recognise them?’ asked Konjic.
Their faces had been well covered, but one did have green eyes. The chance of Will recognising them was remote, but if he said no, his usefulness to Mehmed Konjic was diminished, so he lied.
‘I would.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that, Will, because we’re sending a team after them and we need someone who can identify the thieves. Someone we can trust.’
‘I would be honoured to help,’ said Will. Konjic had used the word ‘trust’, which made Will feel uncomfortable, for sooner or later he was going to sneak away, returning to London.
‘Good,’ said Konjic. ‘I will lead the unit myself. It will be composed of some experienced Janissaries, who are part of the new Rüzgar force. Captain Kadri will remain in Istanbul, continuing to train the other cadets. I will train you as and when we have the opportunity - but I suspect most of your training will come about when you are in the field.’
The Commander pushed his chair away and stood. The meeting was finished. Will couldn’t believe it: the chance to abscond might actually present itself earlier than later. Who knew what terrain they would be going into?
‘Commander?’ said Will.
‘Yes?’
‘I know the others in the team will be more experienced, and I still have a lot to learn. I think it will help me, if we could take one more cadet. At least I will have someone to train with.’
Kadri tilted his head to one side, considering the idea. ‘Who were you thinking of?’
‘Gurkan,’ Will said. ‘He is an exceptional swordsman and I’ve seen him defeat some of the full-time soldiers.’
Konjic rubbed his chin. ‘I do concede that Gurkan is talented and will be good company for you both. Captain Kadri, what do you say?’
‘He is the best sword amongst the cadets, and he is not tainted by court politics. I see merit in Ryde’s proposal.’
‘I like your attitude, Will. How you approach life in many ways determines how life approaches you. It is done, Gurkan will join us,’ Konjic declared.
It was only then, after committing himself and Gurkan to the hunt, that it occurred to Will that he had no idea of their destination!
‘Sorry,’ he said, smiling apologetically. ‘Where are we going?’
Konjic placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘Alexandria, lad. The Land of the Pharaohs. The thief confirmed our suspicion that the theft of the Staff was most likely organised and financed by sympathisers to the defeated Mamluk empire.’
Egypt! The Bible recounted stories of the Israelites’ struggle with the Pharaoh and how God commanded Moses to part the waters of the Red Sea with his staff. The very staff which turned into a giant serpent, swallowing the snakes conjured up by the magicians of the Pharaoh. The same staff Will was now going to seek.
The sea had parted for the Israelites. He needed it to part for him - to take him back to England.
14
GRAND VIZIER
SEAGULLS FLEW OVERHEAD, OCCASIONALLY DIVING from the skies to swoop into the courtyard when they spotted a potential meal. Konjic observed the birds; the simplicity of their existence appealed to him. As a boy growing up in rural Bosnia, Konjic had desired to leave his village, make for the populated cities, become a person of some standing. Now that he was here, in the milieu of the Ottoman court, village life appealed to him once again, like a lover calling from over the hill.
The Grand Vizier, Sardar Ferhad Pasha, had kept him waiting far longer than expected. Konjic knew that with the recent backlash against the Janissaries following the revolt by many of his fellows, it was safer not to show his impatience – if he wanted to keep his head. When the Grand Vizier finally approached, his kaftan and turban were impeccable, his posture erect. Like his predecessor, the Grand Vizier was ethnically Albanian, and he greeted Konjic with a restrained smile.
‘Come, Commander, let us walk, for few conversations within the Palace remain private.’
They descended into the courtyard and Konjic knew that dozens of resentful eyes would be observing them, speculating on what confidences were being exchanged with the Grand Vizier.
‘My esteemed predecessor, Koca Sinan Pasha,’ began the Grand Vizier, ‘was removed from office for not adequately quelling the Janissary revolt. I do not intend for the same fate to befall me. Whilst I continue to admire the martial qualities possessed by your kind, Konjic, I have grown tired of the demands of the Janissary leaders, who seem to spend more time petitioning than performing their duties. It is, as you know, with this in mind that my predecessor started talks with you - a man removed from the politics of the Janissaries, not tainted by their whims and desires - to establish the unit we call the Rüzgar.’
Konjic remembered his surprise when Koca Sinan Pasha had approached him, asking whether he would establish a new covert force outside the ranks of the Janissary corps. One which reported directly to the Grand Vizier, avoiding the normal chain of command. Konjic had feared the backlash from the Janissary leadership when they discovered what he had been asked to do. Yet to his surprise they had left him alone. Perhaps they were certain he was going to fail and it would be better to let him hang himself, for all to witness. After all, without the support of the specialist Janissary units, what hope was there for one Commander, leading a rag-tag ensemble of new recruits, in a specialist unit called ‘the wind’? It was laughable.
‘You, Konjic, are a man known for his honesty and integrity, a rare set of virtues in these times.’
‘Thank you, Grand Vizier.’
‘It does not make a man immune to being corrupted, but you more than most are better equipped to swat away the temptations placed under your nose. Is your team assembled?’
‘It is,’ Konjic replied.
‘I have prepared the requisite paperwork for you to travel as officers of the Balkan Trading Company.’
Konjic raised an eyebrow and the Grand Vizier smiled. ‘I thought you would appreciate the ethnic reference.’
‘I do.’
‘You will be furnished with sufficient resources to follow these rogue Janissaries and hunt them down. Bring them back if you can, or remove them from the face of the earth. Either way we want the Staff back at the Topkapi.’
‘We will do our best.’
The Grand Vizier stopped, turned to stare at Konjic. ‘You will have to do more than that, Commander. If you are caught, we will deny all knowledge of your activities. If your team is enslaved or imprisoned, we will not be sending a rescue party to release you. Do you understand?’
Konjic didn’t like this part of the arrangement. The Rüzgar would be operating independently, with no supervision but equally with no back-up or recourse. They were on their own. Was he, he wondered with foreboding, leading his unit to certain failure and death?
‘I understand,’ he said heavily.
‘Very well.’ The Grand Vizier removed a set of papers from within the folds of his robes and handed them to Konjic. ‘Here are instructions relating to your departure: where to collect the resources you require, and also the names of operatives in countries outside the imperial realm, for I do not know where this expedition will take you. It could be east or west, north or south. Go in the name of God.’
The Grand Vizier made to move away, before stopping once more.
‘One more thing, Commander. Return with the Staff, or do not return at all.’
15
CLOSE TO INFINITY
AWA WAS BEING COOKED ALIVE. She estimated nearly a day had gone by since her incarceration inside the tin box in the middle of the open field behind the camp. The box was about one yard wide and long, and less than one-and-a-half yards high. She couldn’t lie down in it; she had to sit up at all times. It felt as though the burning-hot metal walls were falling in on her. Every so often, someone struck the box with a hammer or mallet, shaking her awake from a feverish doze. The first time this happened, she had thought they were going to release he
r, only to shrink back down in despair. Even her tears had dried up.
Anger had powered her through the first day. She swore vengeance on Odo and Ja, imagined committing terrible acts of violence on them before riding away into the sunset and returning to the Songhai nation. After the first day, however, her anger dissipated and desolation took its place. How much longer were they going to keep her here? How much punishment could her body take? She was pretty hardy, but the temperatures soared, the sunlight was overpowering and the dust suffocating. The lack of water and food made her head spin.
The second night approached. She heard the call to prayer. In the distance there were voices, laughing and joking. She smelled meat being cooked on a grill; someone else was roasting corn, and late in the evening, the fragrance of jasmine seeped in and filled her with yearning. It was the flower her father loved to have around the house. The voices eventually died out and silence filled the tin box. She fell asleep, had a nightmare, then woke in pain from cramp. Her throat was dry, as though fiery sand had been poured down it, and white spots clouded her vision. She squinted, screwed shut her eyes. The spots vanished, then slowly returned. She was spinning. Awa placed her palms down firmly on the ground, yet inside her head, she swung like a monkey from a tree. Panic began to overwhelm her.
When she woke once more, it was from the sun beating down on the roof. She was being baked like a piece of meat on a spit, over a roaring fire. The throbbing pain which had pierced the right side of her head now stretched all over her skull.
Perhaps it was better to die, she thought: at least she would be reunited with her mother in the hereafter and they would wait together for her father to join them. A vision swam into her mind, of her father reading from the Ihya ulum al-din, by the eleventh-century Persian scholar, Al-Ghazali. And then he was there . . .
‘Awa, my child.’ It was her father’s voice. He was standing at a distance from her, arms out, a white halo burning bright around his kaftan and turban. ‘I miss you,’ he said.
Her heart felt as though it was going to burst. ‘Father!’ she wept. ‘Help me!’
He approached, bent down beside her. All was black around them and he was the only light illuminating everything. Taking her chin and tilting it up, so she was able to gaze into his radiant eyes, he said, ‘In the depths of darkness, search for the heavenly light to guide you. Hold firm to the Lord of the Worlds. He will bring you back to us.’
Her father then kissed her on the forehead, before standing tall once more. As she watched, he floated away, taking the celestial glow with him, plunging her into utter darkness.
Awa woke, her face pressed to the ground. Her eyes flicked open and she could hear a beetle scuttle away from her. It was dark around her. She was still alive. How? Footsteps approached. Calmer now, she waited for death or deliverance. There was a screeching sound as the metal door was ripped open above and the cool evening air rushed in, making her blink. Ja bent down and thrust a lamp in to take a look at her sorry state.
‘Humph!’ he grunted.
Next to peer in was Odo. ‘The world is agony Awa. When you die, you’ll get some rest.’ Then the opening slammed shut.
‘No!’ Awa croaked. She tried to raise her arm, to reach out to the metal door, but the limb did not move. This was it then: she would die. But wait! She heard other footsteps. Soon, the metal door was yanked open again, this time by Tome. She must be hallucinating: he was a heartless mercenary who would shed no tears to see her die.
‘Get her out,’ Tome said.
Two women came into view. They gasped at the sight of her.
‘Awa!’ whispered a familiar voice. It was Wassa, her friend. Wassa and the other woman pulled her up by the arms, trying to get her to her feet, but Awa’s legs would not hold her weight and they collapsed with her. Awa groaned.
‘Move away,’ Tome commanded. He reached in, picked Awa up in his arms and carried her, with Wassa beside her.
‘You will live, Awa, you are strong. God has willed it,’ said Wassa, stroking her head.
The last thing Awa remembered before she slipped into unconsciousness, was being placed on a mattress in the dormitory where the women fighters slept. Someone pressed a damp cloth to her lips and squeezed a trickle of water into her mouth, moistening her tongue - her first drink for more than three days.
16
A SLY OFFER
THE SMELL OF SALTY SEAWATER hung in the air, infusing Will with memories of harsh days below deck on Moroccan galleys. He reminded himself that the Misr - the Egyptian - was an altogether different vessel, a commercial, not a military one, Turkish-owned, not Moroccan. And, most importantly, he wasn’t a slave but a cadet in the Janissary force of the most powerful man in the world, Sultan Murad III.
They were halfway through their journey from Istanbul to the port city of Alexandria, and the sea was calm, clear and thankfully quiet. The Ottomans controlled the straits between Turkey and North Africa, with Jerusalem to the east. The Misr took a route hugging the coastline as the Captain felt there was little point straying too far west and falling foul of ongoing naval conflicts between the Moroccans and their European neighbours. Will leaned on the guard-rail, eyes peering down to the hull, where he viewed the oars in motion. Galley slaves were at work. He loosened his collar, as the thought of those men sweating below deck made him uncomfortable.
Will heard a groan and turned to see Gurkan shuffling along the deck, clinging queasily to the rail. His fellow cadet was faring badly on his first ever sea-voyage and Will felt a touch guilty for dragging him along for this mission. Originally, the Konyan had delighted in the news that he was going to accompany them, eager as he was to please Commander Konjic.
‘Surely, this is a punishment from God. I have done some wrong,’ he said piteously.
Will smiled. ‘If God wanted to punish you, I’m sure there are worse things He could inflict than seasickness. Don’t worry, it’ll clear up the more time you spend out on the waves.’
The other man looked hopeful, then clutched his stomach. ‘How long?’
Will considered bending the truth but thought better of it. ‘Well, when I was drafted into the Moroccan navy as a galley slave, I vomited for one whole week.’
Gurkan moaned, his complexion green.
‘But after that it was fine. My stomach became rock solid,’ Will beamed, patting it.
Gurkan retched over the side.
‘Come with me,’ Will said kindly, taking him by the arm. ‘I’ll show you how to make it better.’
Mehmed Konjic had organised for them to travel on a merchant ship, so as not to attract untoward attention when they arrived in Alexandria. There were five in the team, the others with more field experience, plus there was Konjic, which made six. For the purposes of this assignment they were disguised as merchants from Istanbul. The passengers on board the Misr were primarily traders from what Will could see. The route between Turkey and Egypt was an active one for merchants plying their trade in coffee, citrus fruits, rice and leathers.
Will guided the sick Gurkan to a spot below the mast in the aft section of the Misr. He cleared some floor space, put down a tarpaulin and told him to lie flat. Then he picked up a wooden block and placed it under Gurkan’s head.
‘Shut your eyes and count to ten,’ said Will.
The Konyan did as he was told.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Will.
‘By God! The world is no longer tipping over. What did you do, Will?’
The crewman managing the rigging smiled, when he saw Gurkan flat out. Will reckoned every shipmate had experienced sea-sickness at some point in their time onboard, so all felt sympathy with the novice.
Will patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Stay there for as long as you want, old fellow. No one is going to disturb you.’
‘My life is coming back to me,’ said Gurkan, his voice returning to its lively tones. ‘Perhaps once I get off this infernal boat I will hold a sword once more.’
‘Yes, of cours
e you will. Right - I’ll come and check on you in a while. For now, just rest.’ Will left Gurkan and headed off to the stern of the Misr to mingle with other passengers. He noticed Mehmed Konjic sitting on a stool opposite a finely-dressed gentleman, whose hair was speckled with grey. He wore a royal-blue doublet, burgundy-coloured Venetian breeches and a short black velvet cloak. The men were deep in conversation, but when his Bosnian commander spotted Will, he hailed him.
‘Will, please join us,’ said Konjic.
The young man took hold of a stool and sat beside his superior.
‘This is my apprentice, Will Ryde,’ said Konjic. Will kept reminding himself they had set off from Istanbul with false identification papers, describing them as merchants from the suburb of Fatih.
The man sitting opposite them held out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet a fellow Englishman.’
Konjic must have noticed Will’s eyes light up. ‘This is Sir Reginald Rathbone,’ said the Commander.
‘I am honoured, sir,’ replied Will. He would never have dreamed of encountering a nobleman. If only his mother could see him now, hobnobbing with a real English knight, she would be so proud.
‘Since being in the East, young Will here has encountered few from his native land,’ Konjic said smoothly.
‘That does not surprise me. We are a fledgling nation with grand aspirations,’ the other man drawled, ‘yet if truth be told, we are only just starting to widen our horizons beyond our own shores. As for the Spanish and the Italians, they simply fill the waterways of Istanbul and the pathways leading to the Grand Bazaar.’
‘May I enquire what brought you to Istanbul, sir?’ asked Will.
‘Profit,’ said Rathbone, his eyes sharp. ‘Istanbul is the centre of world trade; it is the artery which connects. If you are not under the patronage of the Great Turk himself, you are nowhere. My government understands this so we have been endeavouring to widen our commercial interests in Ottoman territories ever since William Harborne of the Levant Company arrived in Istanbul in 1578.’