A Tudor Turk

by Rehan Khan

  ‘Awa, please join me,’ said Konjic, ushering her to the table. ‘Everyone else is dismissed.’

  Exhaustedly, the others trudged upstairs to their rooms. ‘No, Will, I’d like you to stay,’ the Commander added. Gurkan gawped at him, desperate to remain, but he reluctantly obeyed orders.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Konjic. ‘Ismail brews a wonderful cup.’

  ‘Please,’ said Awa.

  Konjic passed her the drink. ‘Shukrun,’ said Awa in Arabic. Thank you.

  ‘Awa, last night you helped us when there was no need to do so. You fought with tremendous skill and bravery, unlike any other young woman I have seen. I can understand why those slave traders caged you in the gladiatorial ring and why they are so desperate to find you. But rest assured, we are not going to let them,’ said Konjic.

  Awa’s shoulders relaxed upon hearing his words.

  ‘That is good to hear,’ she said gratefully.

  ‘I would like to help you, Awa,’ Konjic went on, ‘but before I commit to such a thing, I need to know who you are. Tell me how you came to be here today, sitting across this table.’ He smiled encouragingly as he sipped the contents of his cup.

  As both men listened attentively, Awa recounted her story.

  Will’s own recent past was pretty torrid, involving enslavement and adversity - but after hearing Awa’s story, he realised he’d got off lightly. She was a high-ranking educated woman from a noble family, whereas he had always been on the periphery of society. It had been difficult enough for him, but it must have been intolerable for her. Somehow, through strength of character, she had retained her dignity during the trials and tribulations.

  Konjic remained silent, rubbing his beard, deep in thought. Eventually he said: ‘Awa, your tale is engrossing, to the point of it being a story one would tell one’s grandchildren. My heart urges me to believe you. But for a man in my position, my rational faculties must also align with my emotional ones. If you have no objection, I would like to ask you one or two questions.’

  Awa looked taken aback. ‘Very well,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do not worry. Any elementary student will know the answers, and since you have a more formal education and broad range of subjects at your disposal, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Please go ahead,’ said Awa. Her voice trembled. Will liked her, he wanted her to get all of the answers to this test Konjic was setting her right, but he also knew the Commander had to ensure they were not being tricked.

  ‘Are you familiar with the Muqaddimah of the fourteenth-century Tunisian historian, Ibn Khaldun?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Good. How does he describe the rise and fall of a dynasty, and what is the element which binds a group of people together?’ asked Konjic.

  Awa smiled. Will breathed a sigh of relief. He had no idea what the answer was, but from the expression on her face, she did.

  ‘The thing that binds is the ‘aṣabiyyah, which can be described as a coming together, or solidifying around a certain idea. This ‘aṣabiyya, then propels a particular group into power, but it also carries the seeds of the group’s eventual downfall.’

  Will frowned. He didn’t understand how a thing which drove a group or tribe to power could also result in its downfall.

  ‘As for the rise and fall of a dynasty, Ibn Khaldun says the first generation of conquerors tend to be hardy tough desert travellers or Bedouins, who come from out of town and take over a city. The people of the city cannot put up a resistance to the barbarians and so submit. By the second generation, the conquerors have taken on the trappings of those they conquered, adopting their art, music, literature and culture. The third generation grows up, having lost nearly all connection with their desert roots. Decadence creeps in. The fourth generation is over-indulgent so is conquered by a sturdier force of Bedouins. And so the cycle continues.’

  ‘An accurate summary of the idea,’ said Konjic. ‘Another question if I may. Ibn Sina, the Persian polymath of the tenth century, wrote The Book of Healing, which is a scientific encyclopaedia. However, as a teenager, which work was he so troubled by that he read it forty times before he finally understood it?’

  Awa was unflustered. ‘It was the Metaphysics of Aristotle, which Ibn Sina was finally able to understand after reading al-Farabi’s commentary.’

  Once more there was a smile upon the face of Konjic. Will felt like a dim-witted simpleton, if these were topics an elementary student knew about!

  ‘Thank you, Awa. Clearly your father is a learned man and has given you the basis of a sound education. You have indeed satisfied my intellectual curiosity.’

  ‘My father always says, to know a man, you must visit his library, for the contours of his mind have been shaped by the words on his bookshelf,’ Awa said.

  ‘I agree with him,’ Konjic replied.

  Will peered at the Commander. Was he now willing to trust Awa? The young woman had grown in confidence as she spoke about familiar topics. It must have been comforting, after the last few months of madness in her life. Her intellectual reach was beyond Will, but as he listened to her he made himself a promise: he was going to learn, become educated.

  ‘We still have a challenge to overcome, Awa. What do we do with you?’ said Konjic.

  ‘She can come with us,’ Will blurted out, then realised he should have kept his mouth shut, as Konjic stared repressively at him.

  ‘What would you like, Awa?’ Konjic asked.

  The young woman gazed out of the window, across the balcony of the guesthouse. ‘I wish to go home, to the Songhai nation.’

  The Commander nodded. ‘We all wish to return home.’ He went on: ‘You strike me as one who is patient, so you will know that things don’t always happen in the sequence you want them to. I would like to offer you the opportunity to return to Timbuktu, but you must earn it.’

  ‘How?’ asked Awa.

  ‘Join us. We could do with your martial skills and sharp mind. A rare combination. We may also need the guile and deftness of a woman for where we’re headed next.’

  ‘As a Janissary?’

  ‘No. Women have not been entered into the Janissary corps and I would not possess the authority to break this tradition. However, I invite you to join my unit, the Rüzgar, as an associate, a free agent if you will. I will pay you - the same as our cadets. You will remain under contract to work for me for three years, after which you may go.’

  Three years! Will was expecting to be long gone by then. If Konjic wanted Awa to remain with them for that period of time, how long did he expect Will to serve? He waited with Konjic, as Awa considered the proposition.

  ‘I agree,’ she decided.

  25

  PREVENTION

  WAVES THUMPED AGAINST THE VESSEL’S hull. The sea became clearer the further north they sailed up the Adriatic, away from the coast of Africa, away from the plains of the Sahara . . . away from the lands of her fathers.

  With the vastness of the Mediterranean behind her, Awa’s mood grew sombre; her heart numb at the thought of being in exile for three whole years. But if she had said no, the Rüzgar would have left her in Alexandria to fend for herself, to run the gauntlet of being re-captured by a vengeful Odo and Ja. With the Janissaries, she would be starting afresh in a foreign land.

  The four-masted ship they had taken from Alexandria to travel to Venice was one owned by the Venetian authorities. The crew of the La Liona were Italians, Spanish and Portuguese. It was strange to see men devoid of colour. Awa had to remind herself that these men, like her, were the Children of Adam, all from the same origin. God had scattered people across the vast regions of the world, and part of His test was for peoples of different tribes and nations to understand one another by showing compassion. It seemed to Awa that this tenet of the Divine was often forgotten, trampled under man’s insatiable pursuit of power.

  In the morning, they sailed alongside the island of Corfu and straight into the Adriatic Sea. They cruised close to the eastern shores of Italy; sh
ips heading south hugged the Balkan coast. Merchants and tradesmen made up the bulk of the passengers. As one of the few women on board, Awa caught unwanted stares wherever she went. After leaving port, she had decided to take off the men’s clothing the others had given her, for it seemed unfitting for a woman to be wearing such garments. Earlier she had purchased, with an advance Konjic gave her, an outfit more suited to feminine tastes, but one that allowed her to move freely in conflict. Her curved scimitar was strapped to her waist, as were two knives; one she kept hidden, strapped to her ankle below her white trousers. To complete the outfit, Awa wrapped a long scarf around her neck; when she prayed, she used it to cover her head. She liked her new clothes, as they were practical, and she purchased two matching sets.

  She noticed Will approach. He came to stand beside her at the aft of the La Liona, leaning against the railing and staring out at the clear waters of the Adriatic. She liked Will. From what he had shared about his life, his past was a troubled one. Despite his lack of formal education, of all the Janissaries, he understood her best. The pain of parting, the humiliation of enslavement, the plight of becoming destitute and then the crumbs of hope to hold onto, when all was lost. He knew all about that.

  ‘Is Gurkan still ailing?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, he’s lying down, incapacitated for now.’

  Awa could tell that the Konyan had taken an immediate liking to her, and she did feel a mutual attraction; her heart always beat a little faster when Gurkan was close. But she was in no position to foster such feelings towards anyone in this turbulent world. The only certainty was the promise of Konjic to release her after three years so she could return to the Songhai nation.

  ‘The sea divides Africa from Europe,’ Will mused. ‘Yet the people who live in those lands need not be divided. I’ve lived in both places and I know from experience we are more alike than we’d care to believe.’

  Awa nodded. ‘I have never been so far from my home,’ she sighed, as a breeze cut in from port, causing her scarf to billow out before her.

  ‘And I have never been so close to mine,’ said Will.

  ‘I always wanted to travel, but now that I am, all I want is to go home,’ she confessed, and Will laughed. Then she asked: ‘Where is England?’

  He explained: ‘On the western side of Italy are the French. Beyond their lands, across a small body of water we call the English Channel, though the French may call it by another name, lies the land of the English. It is an island, made up of the Scottish, who live in the north, the Welsh in the west and the Irish, who lie on an adjacent island, further west.’

  ‘The English rule over these other peoples?’

  ‘At times, yes. Other times, no. At this moment, I’m not entirely sure. We have a Queen on the throne of England, her name is Elizabeth. She has been the monarch for many years and is fighting the Catholics of Europe.’

  ‘She does not follow the Pope?’

  ‘No, she does not.’

  Awa glanced over her shoulder, leaning in a little. ‘What of the Turks and their land?’

  Will puffed his cheeks out. ‘Istanbul is a city unlike any other. When you arrive, it shines like a jewel. The hand of the great architect Sinan is everywhere. As you approach along the Bosporus, you cannot but be amazed at the glories of the city and the reach of the Sultan, the most powerful man in the world.’

  It sounded quite incredible, yet anything so phenomenal was bound to have a darker side to it. ‘What troubles you when you are in the city?’

  The question seemed to catch Will off-guard, for he too checked over his shoulder before replying and lowered his voice. ‘Slavery. The Ottoman Empire, like the Roman Empire before it, is fuelled by slave labour - unpaid men and women who are worked into the ground. I see them on building sites, at the port, in galleys; their eyes devoid of hope, their spirits crushed.’

  The young Englishman fell silent, and Awa recalled her time as a slave. She was still in servitude to another, though she earned an income from her efforts. It was a marked improvement on where she had been, but she was not free, as she had been in Timbuktu.

  ‘The Moroccans enslaved the entire Songhai nation when they defeated us at the Battle of Tondibi,’ she told Will. ‘Our treasury was emptied, our gold and silver shipped to Marrakesh, our crops and food stolen, and my people made destitute.’

  ‘What was it like at Tondibi?’

  ‘It was the first time I had killed a man. I was left sickened by what I had done. Life and death is for God to decide.’

  ‘You were defending your homeland,’ Will said gently.

  ‘Our scholars issued a ruling with the same advice, but it did not make me feel any better. Even the pleasant recollections I have of my family fade beside it. It’s the vilest memories which remain.’ Awa gazed away, remembering the face of the man she had slain. Will remained silent.

  Eventually, she cleared her throat then changed the subject. ‘You grew up in Marrakesh, Will. You must be close to the Moroccans?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’re like everyone else. You have good and bad. My master, Hakim Abdullah, was a quartermaster, and always treated me with dignity. I served him, ran errands for his family, was spoken to with respect. Never did he raise his voice against me. Hakim was a common man but he had a noble spirit, which made him a greater human being than most I have met.’

  ‘You miss him?’

  ‘Yes, I miss my time with him, but not the situation I was in. Commander Konjic is also a kind man. We are fortunate to have found him when we did, for I fear I would not have lasted much longer in the galley.’

  Awa gripped the handrail. She had conjured an image in her mind of all Moroccans being vile and cruel. Yet she knew from her own education and upbringing that this was never the case. Every tribe and nation held within it the capacity for good and evil. Still, it troubled her deeply.

  ‘God is most merciful. Why then,’ she asked passionately, ‘did He let the Moroccans destroy my people and create such misery?’ Her father would be mortified to hear such an utterance. Yet this was how she felt.

  Will listened, then turned to the sea once more, to think how to reply. In the end, he said: ‘One time I was with Hakim Abdullah, and we were travelling to a neighbouring town. Upon the road, we came across a merchant, flogging his slave for insubordination. Around him were his personal bodyguards, also kicking the poor fellow, for the merchant was rather corpulent, unsteady on his feet.

  ‘Hakim hesitated. I sensed that he wanted to intervene, but after assessing the situation, he decided to move on. Later that evening, after we had eaten our meal, I asked my master why God permitted cruelty to be inflicted by one person on another. He told me that when there is injustice in the world, we should not blame God. We need look to ourselves, for God has appointed men and women as His stewards upon the earth and it is for us to help others when we are able to do so. God will ask us, “What did you do, when you witnessed injustice?”

  ‘I said to my master, “It is not always possible to intervene, if one fears for one’s own safety and livelihood, such as the encounter we had with the merchant on the road.” My master smiled, for he realised that what was really troubling me was witnessing his urge to do something, then his failure to intervene. He related to me a saying of the Prophet Muhammad: “Whosoever of you sees an evil, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then let him change it with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart - and that is the weakest of faith”.’

  Will was about to add something, when a familiar voice interrupted them. It was Gurkan. ‘How you two can keep so steady is a miracle,’ he said, stumbling his way towards them.

  He gripped the handrail and stared out at the horizon. ‘Oh dear, just looking at the waves is making my stomach churn.’

  ‘Why did you get up then?’ said Will.

  ‘I was going mad lying in the same position. Besides, I need to get used to staying onboard when we get to Venice. Commander
Konjic says Turks are presently not welcome in Venice, so Ismail and I will need to remain on the La Liona.’

  ‘What about the rest of us?’ enquired Will.

  ‘He’s worked out new identities for you, including one for Awa,’ said Gurkan with a smile.

  26

  BASILICA

  DONG WENT THE BELLS OF the Basilica of St Mark’s in Venice. Evening mass was in progress, and the faithful had gathered to pray for salvation. They had come from near and far, for this was a special week for the city state. Congregational prayers were held for Doge Pasquale Cicogna, whose leadership kept Venice at the forefront of trade in the Mediterranean. His position was an unenviable one, for he had to continually balance political, religious and commercial interests.

  Will wanted to join the congregation but Commander Konjic had called a meeting and their small crew was assembling, taking chairs onto the patio of their guesthouse, which was located off one of the side streets near St Mark’s Square. Gurkan and Ismail were absent, left on the La Liona, moored in the port. The Venetians had no problems in trading with Turks, but during this important week they did not want to see any Turks in their city state.

  Venice, like Istanbul, was a cosmopolitan city of diverse cultures and beliefs, driven by an insatiable appetite to trade with the world. Will had seen Cypriots, Greeks, Danes, French, Spanish and the odd Englishman, transacting deals in the markets and exporting goods from the port. He had even heard of a vessel arriving from the exotic eastern market of India. The Venetians were Catholics but never on the best of terms with the Vatican, for they continued to trade with Protestants as well as those from rich Muslim lands.

  Will poured the coffee. It was his first attempt to make it without the supervision of Ismail. He filled the cups of Kostas, Mikael and Awa, and when Konjic entered the room, one for him, before pouring his own. The five sat in wicker chairs around a circular table, and Will observed them discreetly as they sipped the drink. No adverse reactions. He drank from his own cup. It was quite good. Not as sweet as Ismail’s concoction, but that wasn’t such a bad thing.