by Rehan Khan
Konjic went silent for a moment.
‘Sir?’ Kostas enquired.
‘Considering we’re investigating the loss of the Staff of Moses, and its connection with the Jewish faith, the Sicarii might be the buyers, or at least acting on behalf of them,’ said Konjic.
‘It might also explain the reference to the Venetian buyer,’ Kostas replied. ‘There is a strong Jewish presence in Venice, so perhaps someone from that community paid the Sicarii.’
‘Could be,’ Konjic acknowledged. ‘Venetian merchants have been struggling to secure favourable trade terms with the Sultan, because we’re trading more with the Safavids in Persia these days.’ He turned to Gurkan and Will. ‘You two: anything to report?’
‘Nothing unusual,’ Gurkan said. ‘But . . . we are going to a gladiatorial contest tonight.’
Hearing this, the others sat up. ‘Well,’ said Will, trying to explain, ‘these types of places attract all sorts - we might learn something.’
‘How to kill someone with a sword perhaps?’ said Mikael.
Will and Gurkan looked somewhat shamefaced: it did seem like a flimsy excuse.
‘We have two tickets,’ said Gurkan, waving the pieces of paper around.
‘They won’t let you in, you look too young,’ said Ismail, smiling.
‘I look older than I am,’ said Gurkan.
‘Me too,’ said Will.
‘You are both tall and broad, but you have baby faces,’ argued Ismail.
‘Baby faces!’ Gurkan growled.
‘It’s a compliment,’ said Mikael. ‘Before you end up becoming a grizzled old misery like Ismail here.’
‘Hey - watch it! I’m no misery,’ Ismail began.
Konjic slapped the table and they all fell silent.
‘Thank you,’ he said heavily. ‘Although I agree that our youngest members appear green behind the ears, I think it will do them some good to attend. Mikael and Ismail, I’d like you to accompany them. See if you can get tickets. If not, stay close to the venue. In an investigation such as this, taking the unexpected route may lead to results. The only problem is, these places are full of unsavoury characters who’ll put a knife through you without a second thought.’
He turned to Gurkan and Will. ‘Watch your backs.’
19
ROAR OF APPROVAL
HUNDREDS OF FEET THUMPED WOODEN benches, and angry cries erupted. The crowd was not satisfied with the previous gladiatorial contest, which had ended too quickly because one of the contestants gave up before the fight got properly started. It couldn’t be called a bout, more a chase, with one gladiator trying to catch the other, who ran away until he tripped and fell flat on his face.
Tome led Awa from the holding shelter and down a narrow corridor lit by lanterns. They emerged into the weapons store. The quartermaster stood up when they entered, giving Awa the once-over with his one good eye, the other having a patch over it.
‘Over here,’ he said, beckoning.
The Spaniard was by her side as Awa carefully inspected the weapons stacked up on the shelves. Swords and lances were the most prevalent. There were long and short shields, as well as a war hammer, which was too heavy for her to even attempt to lift. She hoped her opponent didn’t choose such a weapon. In addition, a clutch of daggers and knives were laid out on the table before her. She thought of stealing one, but Tome was keeping a watchful eye on her. The quartermaster presented her with a shield and waited for her to choose her sword.
‘Let me try this one,’ said Awa, pointing to a mid-length blade with a guard around the hilt.
Tome was a looming presence beside her. ‘Also let her try the one with the curved blade and short handle,’ he suggested.
Awa put her shield down and tested the swing and balance of both of the blades. The Spaniard was right, the curved blade suited her grip. She nodded at him. ‘Yes, it’s better.’
They turned and stood behind the door leading into the makeshift arena. Awa peered through the slats. The audience was a mixture of races, with a few faces whose skin was as white as snow. She had never seen that kind before, for though the Spaniard was naturally pale-skinned, his complexion had been tanned a leathery brown.
Awa had arrived in Alexandria the night before, but could not see much through the bars of a slave wagon. Still, she had gained the sense of being in a large city. If ever she was going to escape and disappear into a population, this would be the place. There were enough dark-skinned Africans for her to blend in, before she found passage out of the city - though at this moment she had no idea how. But it was essential to escape from this life of madness, where she killed for the pleasure of others, whilst risking the wrath of God.
Tome turned to her. ‘The odds are high against you. Odo expects to makes lots of money tonight.’
‘From my death?’
‘No, from your victory.’
‘Why would the bets be placed so high?’
The Spaniard inspected her, eyes narrowing. ‘Because you’re fighting two opponents.’
It was a shock. Awa exhaled deeply. She remembered how she had felt on the previous two occasions, first on the field at Tondibi, when she had little experience and her naïve approach carried her through, then when she had escaped the slave camp, with Wassa by her side. This time she was truly alone, with only her wits and limited skill to guide her. She prayed for self-preservation and forgiveness.
The arena master poked his head through the door. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Tome as he guided her out.
Immediately Awa was struck by the size of the crowd, larger and more diverse than before. They were in some kind of large store down at the docks. The ceiling was high, thick beams criss-crossing the roof above. The audience roared when they spotted her, alone with her shield and curved sword. Awa glimpsed Odo and Ja, standing to one side behind a barrier. The ranks of benches stretched back ten rows on four sides, giving the impression that at any moment, the audience could collapse in on the circle where the fighters were to perform.
Another door opened and a man, followed by a woman, entered the ring. He was of medium height, with stocky shoulders and thin arms. His moustache was narrow and his olive-toned body was well oiled. Beside him, the woman was taller than he was - darker too, with muscular arms. They both gripped swords but carried no shields. At least the organisers had levelled out the contest a little.
Sighting her opponents, the watchers scolded them, as though they were the villains, come to defeat the innocent young woman. It struck Awa that this was a piece of theatre, the crowd being entertained with the story of a weaker opponent overcoming a stronger adversary. Everyone liked this sort of tale, from when David slew Goliath. Only she was no David.
‘Salute the crowd,’ the ringmaster ordered.
She complied, as did her opponents.
‘Now - fight to the death!’ said the ringmaster, before scampering away to join Odo behind the barrier.
Awa spun the hilt of her weapon in her hand, her shield up, ready for an attack. Her two opponents fanned out to either side. She took small, light steps, bouncing around on her toes. Let them come, she told herself as she circled, watching for the first movement. The man darted at her with his raised sword, aiming for her chest. It was a clumsy manoeuvre which she deflected easily with her shield. He then swung low at her ankles. She leaped and brought her shield crashing down against his shoulder, causing him to stumble back. The woman’s blade arced through the air, aimed at her neck. Awa ducked and smashed her shield into the woman’s face. It cut her opponent’s lower lip, blood turning her chin dark red.
The crowd thundered, but Awa barely registered the noise, for the stillness had come over her. She tracked the movement of her opponents, witnessing the world around her in a sort of slow motion. She twirled her sword, stepping towards the woman just as the man charged at her from behind. Rather than defend the blow, Awa dived onto the ground and rolled away - and the man’s blade went straight into his partner�
��s chest.
Awa was back on her feet immediately and as the man was pulling out his blade, distraught at having felled his ally, she pivoted and her weapon took off his head. Blood sprayed across the ground; the woman was covered in it as the man’s body collapsed, falling into her arms. The woman stared aghast at his headless form, before she too toppled over dead. There were gasps from the audience, before they bellowed, hollered, howled their support for the victor. People danced up and down on the benches. They loved her display.
She loathed it.
Odo smacked Ja on the back with delight, as the ringmaster leaned over to ask Odo something before he entered the ring once more, staring at Awa with a mixture of respect and fright. She had given them a show, all right - and what a show.
‘Awa of the Songhai!’ the ringmaster announced, as loudly as he could.
‘Awa! Awa! Awa!’ The excited onlookers cheered her name, clapping with delight at the beautiful act of violence.
She stood statue-like, absorbing the praise. She would not fall into the trap of displeasing Odo again by throwing down her weapons in disgust, though it was what her heart desired.
Tome was by her side, ushering her back through the door. ‘Come on, they need to clean up this mess,’ he said.
Awa followed him back inside, showing no emotion whatsoever. The quartermaster was there to receive the weapons, and she noted that the knives and daggers were still laid out on the table. This was her chance. She approached, but tripped. Her sword went flying out onto the ground, while the shield scattered the knives and daggers, knocking many of them down.
‘Sorry!’ Awa cried. ‘I’m feeling dizzy.’ She placed her arm against the table for support, while Tome retrieved her sword and the quartermaster began to collect up the fallen blades.
‘Clumsy girl!’ the quartermaster scolded her. ‘I have a mind to give you a taste of the back of my hand.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Tome at the man. ‘You’ll do no such thing, or you’ll feel the back of my hand – and you won’t like it!’
Awa was surprised to see the Spaniard defending her. But then, she was a money-making tool and it was in their interest to ensure she was well attended from now on.
‘Awa! Awa! Awa!’ The shouts of the crowd continued in the background.
‘Hear that?’ Tome said, jabbing his finger towards the audience. ‘They love you. You entertained them.’
Awa clutched her head, pretending she was still feeling light-headed. ‘It was too much. All those people calling my name - it made me come over faint.’
Tome grunted. Handing the curved sword back to the quartermaster, he said roughly, ‘C’mon.’ He led Awa down the corridor towards the holding-room, where the other women waited. What neither he nor the quartermaster noticed was the dagger she had tucked into the folds of her clothing.
20
CITADEL
BLOOD SHOWERED OUT OF THE headless corpse. Will swallowed hard. He had never witnessed a decapitation before. The gladiator, Awa, was a formidable opponent. When Will had seen the pairing against Awa, he had felt for her, but not any more. The stewards were in the ring, dragging the two bodies of the headless man and the impaled woman away. Others ran on, with buckets of water and mops, setting to work scrubbing the floor, readying it for the next contest.
‘Filthy business,’ said Gurkan. He jerked a thumb. ‘Look at those vultures collecting their winnings.’
Close to the entrance where the contestants emerged, Will spotted an exceptionally tall man beside a shorter squat one with a nasty scar. They were Africans, though he was uncertain of their tribe or nation. They stood behind a barrier, the same position they had been in when the fight was taking place. Their smiles told Will the men were pleased with the result. A dejected queue of gamblers were lining up to hand over money to them.
‘The girl doesn’t get any of that,’ said Will.
‘She is their slave. She is entitled to nothing.’ Gurkan shrugged.
Will nodded. ‘I know what it’s like. I spent years in the galley, chained down, beaten by oar-masters who took a dislike to me. As a slave, you live on a knife edge: any moment could be your last. I feel for her.’
‘How did you not go mad?’ Gurkan asked.
Will stared at his open hands, clenching and unclenching them. ‘I thought about my mother, remembering her auburn hair and the scent of lavender. Whenever I come across lavender today, my heart quickens. Knowing my mother loves me, strengthens me. Knowing I love her, my courage grows.’ It occurred to Will then that he had not shared this sentiment with anyone, not even his beloved former master, Hakim Abdullah. Why then was he confiding in Gurkan? Perhaps because the Konyan was of the same age. He hoped he hadn’t said too much.
‘You are free from the yoke of servitude now, my friend,’ said Gurkan, placing a companionable hand on his shoulder.
Yes, he was, thought Will - but for how long? The world they lived in was so fraught with danger. He was a white-skinned English lad, living in a time and place where his nation was little known. If he had learned anything these past few years, it was that, other than the Spanish, power lay in the East - in Istanbul, Marrakesh, Isfahan and further east in Delhi. Until he was safely back in England, he would always be at risk of being captured, sold or worse.
Though Will himself was no longer enslaved, that poor woman down there was. He wanted to help her in some way, but how? What could he do in this alien city? How many others like her were present? Did they have a whole wagon of slaves lined up to be sacrificed for the enjoyment of the watching audience? The thought sickened him. He and Gurkan had paid to be present, but surely that was justified as they were searching for the thieves? Still, it left a knot in his stomach.
As he pondered the matter, a figure in the crowd drew his attention. The way he moved was somehow familiar. Will shuffled closer towards the man, all the while ensuring he was not seen. Was it him, the one from Istanbul? On that occasion, the man had leaped off the roof of the Grand Bazaar.
‘Gurkan,’ he muttered, ‘I think I’ve seen the green-eyed Janissary!’
‘Where?’
‘In the queue, handing over his money to that tall fellow.’
The green-eyed Janissary waited his turn, before coming face to face with the tall African, to whom he reluctantly handed over a fistful of dinars. The giant smiled, his brilliant white teeth shining like the moon, and placed the coins in a metal box, jangling them with a heap of others he had collected. Green-eyes stared at his lost dinars, then eyeballed the giant, who beamed. Will didn’t think the former Janissary had much of a chance going up against the colossus. Neither, so it seemed, did Green-eyes, for he turned and headed dejectedly for the exit.
‘We need to follow him,’ said Will, racing down the benches, ducking underneath, then sprinting over to the exit the former Janissary had taken. They emerged into the warm evening air. The street was silent. The chosen venue was barely visited after sunset, when the docks no longer operated and this type of illegal activity took place without any inspection from the city authorities, who were most likely paid to turn a blind eye. Mikael and Ismail were nowhere to be seen - they hadn’t gained entry. Will had expected them to be outside as Commander Konjic advised. So, where were they? Perhaps they had returned to the guesthouse. Then he spotted Green-eyes turning a corner.
‘There!’ said Will.
‘Let’s keep our distance,’ Gurkan advised as they pursued their target.
The rogue Janissary maintained a brisk pace, striding with a degree of purpose. He headed south into the windy streets of the Al-Attarin district, a warren of dilapidated buildings and cheap guesthouses. These contrasted with the plusher villa Konjic had arranged for them, given they were impersonating wealthy Istanbul merchants.
They remained about twenty paces behind Green-eyes; far enough to observe him, but not close enough to arouse suspicion. Will thought they had lost him at one point, but Gurkan caught his tail once more. Eventually Green-eyes came t
o a narrow building - a guesthouse it seemed from the sign swinging above the low doorway, which he stooped to go through. He entered, bounding up the stairs, and Will caught a glimpse of him on the first floor. He and Gurkan waited behind a wheelbarrow, two large barrels on top of it shielding them from being spotted.
‘You sure it’s him?’ asked Gurkan.
‘As certain as I can be.’
‘All right, so we wait,’ said Gurkan.
They sat with their backs against the alley wall, keeping watch. Will felt they might be mistaken for beggars. Time ticked by, till he began to wonder if the Janissary had gone to bed and they would be here all night. One of them would need to go and fetch Konjic and the others, but until they knew what the thieves were planning it was best they both remained.
‘Why take the Staff?’ he mused aloud.
‘Who knows. Maybe someone offered a substantial fee to steal it?’
‘But who?’ wondered Will.
‘That is the one-thousand-dinar question, my friend. It must be someone with the funds and influence to pull off such a robbery,’ said Gurkan.
‘And the guts.’ Will shuddered. ‘Crossing Sultan Murad III is not something to do lightly.’
‘Yes. May his brothers rest in peace,’ said Gurkan in a whisper.
There it was again, a reference to the Sultan’s brothers, all of whom had been murdered on his orders, on the day he ascended to the throne. Will hoped he would never have cause to be in the presence of the Ruler. Huja’s words echoed in his mind, about how he had lost his soul in the Topkapi Palace.
Will must have nodded off, for he jumped when Gurkan nudged him. He stared up and could see the green-eyed Janissary leaving the house, accompanied by another. By his height and body-shape, Will felt certain this new man was the second thief he had chased across the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar.