by Rehan Khan
‘Tomorrow afternoon is the official opening of the newly reconstructed Rialto Bridge, which spans the Grand Canal,’ Konjic announced. ‘This bridge is built of stone, not wood - and Doge Cicogna has invited many dignitaries to the ceremony. All of the resident ambassadors, leaders of merchants’ guilds and notable foreign visitors will be in attendance. Through some connections, I have managed to reach out to Antonio da Ponte, the architect who designed the bridge. Antonio very kindly met me this morning and provided three tickets to the opening.’
Despite political differences between Catholics and Ottomans, artists were relatively free to exchange ideas. Will had seen Christian and Jewish artisans in Istanbul, plying their trade and, in some cases, being given patronage by the Sultan. If Konjic said he had three tickets, no doubt he and Mikael would be left out. He was right.
‘Kostas and Awa will join me at the ceremony. Mikael and Will, you will be patrolling the public spaces. This is the most significant event in Venice this year, and it’s no coincidence that the Sicarii have arrived at this time. Whoever is buying from them will be at the opening. I need you all to be vigilant,’ said Konjic.
‘Aren’t we looking for the Knights of the Fire Cross?’ Mikael asked.
‘Like the Sicarii themselves, they are merely handlers,’ replied Konjic. ‘The real buyer sits behind them, shielded in the shadows. Their identity and intentions are a mystery. If we are to stop the transaction, we will need to discover who they are and where the Staff is going next. If we miss this opportunity, I fear it may slip out of our hands.’ Konjic paused, glancing down at his cup of coffee. ‘The Grand Vizier was very clear when he told me: “Return with the Staff, or do not return at all”.’
It had never occurred to Will that the stakes were so high. He felt tension seize the back of his neck, as though a hand were squeezing it. It was the same feeling he had had when the oar-master was about to whip him. Will did not want to disappoint his Commander; if Konjic were removed, what would it mean for him? A return to the life of a galley slave? It seemed to Will in that moment, that those at the bottom of the pyramid, such as galley slaves, were powerless; while those near the apex, close to power, lived on the edge.
‘Kostas, you and I will continue to maintain our Balkan Trading Company identities. It has served us well to date and the papers have passed inspection in Alexandria, as well as the Port in Venice. Remember, we are visiting to see how we can facilitate trade with the Balkan regions, through our Turkish entities. Now, to Awa.’
Will and the others turned to look at their newest recruit. If they floundered, what would it mean for her? Every day Will spent with her, he came away feeling he knew so little of the world compared to this Songhai woman. Not only was she sharper of mind, her martial qualities also outstripped his own.
‘Yes, Commander?’ she said.
‘You will be impersonating a noblewoman from Gao. Your father is a wealthy landowner from the province. He has appointed me, in my capacity as an officer of the Balkan Trading Company, to identity suitable Venetian products which can be exported to West Africa. He is particularly interested in luxury items, which are highly sought after amongst the affluent and which fetch a healthy profit. Unable to travel due to his commitments, he has sent you on his behalf.’
Awa lowered her head. ‘Gao has been destroyed by the Moroccans.’
‘I know, because you told me. News has not reached Ottoman lands, however, and it will not have been heard about in Venice,’ said Konjic, who observed Awa with a sympathetic eye. ‘If you impersonate a character whose background you are familiar with, there will be less opportunity to make a mistake.’
She nodded, trying to smile.
‘Any questions?’ asked Konjic.
‘I will need to be suitably dressed,’ Awa told him.
‘A dressmaker has been arranged and will be arriving shortly with a number of costumes in the latest Venetian fashions for you to choose from. I leave the matter entirely in your hands. My only advice is to select something elegant, but which does not draw too much attention to yourself.’
Konjic went on: ‘If someone asks about your family, such as how many siblings you have, improvise. Don’t go into detail, keep it superficial. Try and meet as many people as possible, ask them what they trade in. Mention that your father is personally very interested in acquiring rare religious artefacts. See if anybody latches on, mentions that they know a seller. The Sicarii after all are handlers, and like any mercenary organisation, may switch allegiance - if offered the right price.’
‘And what would be the right price?’ Awa was curious to know.
‘Don’t worry about particulars, focus on articulating your intentions. Detail can be filled in afterwards. Besides, you’re far too important to worry about such trivial concerns as cost. Your administrators, myself and Kostas, will take care of such matters.’
Awa nodded. She was remarkably composed, Will thought admiringly. He had seen her in action in the field. He remembered the way she rode the horse along the pier, showing courage and intelligence. She almost caught the Sicarii.
On Konjic’s prompting, Kostas wrapped up the briefing with additional information about the key personalities they were going to meet. Every notable person in Venice was likely to be in attendance. After Kostas finished, Konjic dismissed them. As he did so, there was a knock on the door and the dressmaker arrived. Two servants hauled in a heavy trunk, stuffed with clothes. Awa and the lady disappeared upstairs, and the two servants vanished, leaving Will to heave the trunk up the flight of stairs.
He knocked on the door. ‘Trunk is here,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Good,’ said the dressmaker. ‘Now off you go, young man, we have work to do.’
Will trudged back down, returning to the empty table. He was about to sit when he remembered St Mark’s Basilica. Perhaps there was still time to attend the service? He nipped out and strode down the narrow street linking their guesthouse to the main square, and soon found himself standing beside the four bronze horses at the entrance to the basilica. He stopped to marvel at the craftsmanship.
‘Brought over from Constantinople,’ said a crackly voice behind him. Will turned to see an old man, hunched, sitting on a pedestal with a bowl beside him. ‘You been there, young feller?’
‘Constantinople?’ said Will.
The old man nodded.
‘Briefly, for business, but of course not at the moment. Things are a little tense, what with the Turks and all,’ said Will. ‘Excuse me, I’d better be getting in for the service.’ He turned to go, but the old man coughed and motioned with his eyes towards his begging bowl.
Will thought for a moment. He was in a church and God instructed people to be charitable. He took out a coin and dropped it in the bowl, before smiling at the old man and entering through the left doorway. He came to a halt in the foyer before the main church and was overwhelmed by the finery and magnitude of the mosaics. There were thousands of them, carefully placed, telling numerous stories. Gold shone off the tiles, glittering in the reflection of a thousand candles. Within each cavernous dome in the roof was a story: above him was the tale of Noah and the Flood. The marble floor was designed in geometric detail.
As he approached the first archway, two replica griffins glared at him. Will slipped onto one of the benches, lowering his head. He reminded himself he had come to pray. He wasn’t a Catholic or a Protestant. He was simply a Christian. Will then sank to his knees on the cushion placed on the marble floor. He prayed for his mother and the father he had never met. He prayed for England, the country he never knew, and the Queen, the monarch he would one day serve. He prayed for his safe return to London, the city he was taken from. He prayed for Istanbul, the city which took him in. And he prayed for Commander Konjic and the Rüzgar unit he served, for they were akin to family.
As he started to rise from his position, he noted a hefty-looking fellow, martially dressed. The man wore gloves, but as he knelt down, the sleeve of his tunic
went up, to reveal a tattoo - of a burning cross. The Knights of the Fire Cross: handlers who were going to receive the Staff from the Sicarii. The man became aware of Will’s interest, so Will quickly rubbed his knee, feigning discomfort as his reason for being slow in rising. In case the Knight looked again, Will limped off the bench, then scuttled to the back of the cathedral, keeping out of sight. He was in time to see someone approach the tattooed man and tap him on the shoulder; the two men turned and left the church together. Will darted after them and saw they were headed in the opposite direction to the guesthouse.
He mustn’t miss this chance: he had to follow them. Will knew that his disappearance would cause concern to the Rüzgar, but that couldn’t be helped. He would say sorry later. Lifting up his collar, he shadowed the men, away from the Basilica.
27
BRIDGE TOO FAR
THE ROAD FROM ST MARK’S Square to the Rialto Bridge was packed with excited crowds. Their progress in the cramped carriage was slow: it would have been quicker to walk. However, it was not befitting for Awa, Konjic and Kostas to be seen walking amongst the throng in their elaborate evening wear. In some ways it suited Awa to sit in the dawdling transport, as it was hard to move in the elaborate floor-length bright blue gown she wore. Her breathing was constricted by the corset, and the embroidered partlet covering her neckline made her want to scratch. Upon her head she wore a cap, lined in silk and attached to a band, pinning her hair up. It was all so uncomfortable.
The trio finally alighted and made their way to the marquee set up for dignitaries, who would be the first to cross the bridge following the grand opening by Doge Pasquale Cicogna. Afterwards, the people of Venice would be able to cross the new bridge.
‘Any news from Will?’ asked Konjic.
‘No, sir. He seems to have disappeared after this afternoon’s briefing,’ said Kostas.
Will had spoken to Awa about his desire to return to England. Had he already fled? she wondered. In Venice, he was closer to home than he had ever been, so perhaps the temptation to run was too great.
The Commander nodded. ‘I’m sure he will show up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Kostas, but Awa detected uncertainty in his voice.
Guards patrolled, keeping unwanted guests out. Entering the marquee, Awa was struck by the range of nationalities present, all wearing the traditional clothes of their country. She herself wished she was wearing the regal dress of the Songhai women.
‘Remember Awa, you are a noblewoman,’ said Konjic in a soft voice.
Only weeks before, she had been a slave, living in squalor, surrounded by sickness; death in the arena a constant threat. It was all a long way from her beginnings in the noble city of Timbuktu. Now here she was, swanning about in the high echelons of Venetian society in a dress fit for a queen. It made her giddy thinking about it.
The Rialto Bridge was adorned with a series of lamps, illuminating its grandeur as the sun set. The bridge had been cleverly designed with two inclined ramps meeting in a portico in the centre of the bridge, allowing for the passage of tall ships.
‘Life is made of moments, each moment an opportunity. Come,’ beckoned Konjic. He took them towards a frail-looking man. ‘Buongiorno, Antonio!’ he said, shaking the man’s hand.
‘Salve!’ the man replied.
‘Antonio, this is Awa Maryam al-Jameel, whom I mentioned when we met yesterday.’
‘Enchanted to meet you,’ said Antonio, with a courtly bow.
‘Awa, this is Signor Antonio da Ponte, the architect who designed the new Rialto Bridge, and who kindly invited us to the opening,’ said Konjic.
‘Thank you for allowing us to view your marvellous creation, signor,’ said Awa, curtseying.
‘Kostas, my bookkeeper.’ Konjic introduced him in turn.
Da Ponte asked a server to return with three glasses of pomegranate juice for his guests. While they sipped, he explained the intricacies of creating the new stone bridge. The previous one had been built of wood and regularly collapsed. This one he expected to last a thousand years, he told them - unless an earthquake sank it, which he could do nothing about since it was the will of God. His competitors were jealous of his work, he confessed, for he was a man of humble origins. Fortunately, despite these people plotting against him, filling the Doge’s ear with doubts about his abilities, Cicogna had remained loyal to him and da Ponte had repaid him with this fine bridge.
‘Here comes His Eminence now,’ the architect said. An elderly man with a long beard, dressed in immaculate cream robes and draped in a red cloak, was walking towards them: he was wearing the distinctive horned ducal cap. Behind him were two hefty guards.
‘Antonio, I will need you for a moment,’ said Cicogna.
‘Yes, of course, my Doge. May I introduce Mehmed Konjic of the Balkan Trading Company? He is facilitating access for our merchants to the East.’ The architect chose his words carefully, not mentioning Turks or Ottomans.
‘We are always grateful to those who provide our merchants with openings to new markets,’ said Cicogna.
‘Venice is a diamond, its merchants jewellers. It is we who are honoured,’ Konjic replied humbly.
The Doge was pleased with the comment. He and da Ponte then moved to the far corner of the marquee, the two bodyguards trailing behind them.
Awa meanwhile was regarding everyone there with suspicion, however rich and well-favoured they might be. Was the mastermind present, the one who had planned the theft of the Staff? She was a skilled fighter, but spying on others like this made her uneasy.
‘Konjic! Lovely surprise,’ drawled a man dressed in an outfit with wide shoulders and puffed sleeves. He wore an embroidered doublet with silver buttons, and a blue gemstone was sewn beside his collar. His tall felt cap sparkled with jewels.
‘Sir Reginald Rathbone!’ said Konjic, shaking the newcomer by the hand.
‘What brings you here, my good man?’ Rathbone asked.
Awa noticed a large bearded fellow standing a few feet away, clearly with Rathbone - perhaps a bodyguard. He was immaculately dressed in black and grey from head to foot, and his neck was the width of a tree trunk. When he locked fierce eyes with Awa, it sent a shiver down her back.
‘We’ve been doing business with the Venetians for years, you know how it is. Officially the Ottomans are at war, but not when it comes to making money.’
Konjic was about to introduce Awa, but Rathbone was too full of himself to notice. ‘I heard the Moroccans made a huge profit by raiding those savages, the Songhai,’ he was saying. ‘Imagine, King Askia was stashing away more gold than in al-Mansur’s entire treasury in Marrakesh. They acquired plump war booty and the Earl of Leicester is a happy man as it means the Moroccans will likely pay him for his next shipment of steel. Trade has been poor since the Battle of the Three Kings.’
Awa clenched her fists. Fortunately, they were covered by the embroidery around her wrists.
Despite Konjic’s assurance, news had already travelled about the destruction of her people . . . As before, Rathbone was oblivious, but Awa saw that the bodyguard was watching her carefully. She immediately unclenched her fists and released her breath.
‘I see,’ said Konjic, glancing at Awa. ‘Are the English doing much business with the Moroccans?’
English! Rathbone was from the same land as Will? How could that be? Will was gentle and thoughtful, while this man was pompous and arrogant.
‘Only through Leicester. It’s an interesting market, but they don’t pay on time. Ottoman and Safavid agreements are key to opening up doorways to the East.’ It was at this moment that Rathbone noticed Awa, raking her from head to toe with a hard stare.
‘Allow me to introduce Awa Maryam al-Jameel, who is acting on behalf of her father, a person of considerable wealth. And you know my bookkeeper Kostas, whom you met aboard the Misr.’
Rathbone acknowledged Kostas, then turned to Awa. ‘And where might you be from, Awa?’ he asked condescendingly.
‘West Afri
ca,’ Awa replied.
‘That’s a big area, where specifically?’
Awa was trying to keep calm in the face of the inquisitive Englishman. ‘You won’t know it.’
‘Try me.’
‘Yes, well,’ Konjic interjected. ‘Her father’s shareholdings and lands stretch across many territories. Sir Reginald, if I may enquire, what brings you to Venice at this time of the year?’
Rathbone’s stare lingered on Awa a moment longer, before he turned and replied with a smile: ‘Oh, Stukeley,’ he motioned with his head to the large bodyguard, ‘and I are in town to collect an item.’
‘It must be very precious if it needs you to collect it in person,’ Konjic said carefully.
‘One of its kind,’ Rathbone agreed.
Konjic exchanged a look with Kostas and was about to say something, when Rathbone asked: ‘Where is young Will Ryde?’
‘Just out on an errand,’ said Konjic.
‘Shame. I’d love to have met him. Please convey my best,’ Rathbone said in a laconic manner.
‘Gentlemen, ladies, please come.’ They were being ushered towards the Rialto Bridge for the opening ceremony. The guests moved to the St Mark’s side of the bridge, everyone keen to try out the stone walkway.
‘No doubt we’ll be seeing you, Sir Reginald,’ said Konjic.
The Englishman studied the Commander, taking his hand and shaking it. ‘I’m sure,’ he said, before departing with Stukeley.
They watched the two Englishmen move on up ahead, before the Commander murmured, ‘Kostas, follow them. I want to know who they are going to meet after the ceremony and what they have come to collect.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kostas split away from them and surreptitiously began to trail behind Rathbone and Stukeley.
‘You did well not to react,’ Konjic praised Awa.
Awa still brooded, however. She had been tempted to draw the blade she had strapped around her ankle and put it to Rathbone’s throat, for the manner in which he spoke about her people.