A Tudor Turk

by Rehan Khan

  Konjic gave the lad a coin and sent him on his way. He was about to shut the door, when they heard light footsteps heading in their direction. Mikael had returned with Gurkan and Ismail.

  Gurkan exchanged a beaming smile with Awa, who was happy to see him.

  ‘We had a message: Will has located the Knights and was following them. We don’t know where,’ Konjic informed them. ‘Kostas meanwhile has followed Sir Reginald Rathbone to the ghetto, a most peculiar location for a distinguished gentleman to be frequenting at this time of night. We know the Knights are due to meet the Sicarii, to purchase the Staff. If the meeting is taking place on Sicarii terms, it might be in the Jewish ghetto, which implicates Sir Reginald by his presence there, and in turn his patron, the Earl of Rothminster.’

  ‘Kostas and Will might both be at the ghetto?’ Mikael asked.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Konjic replied. ‘We need to get there as quickly as possible.’ They left the guesthouse, racing across St Mark’s Square as the ruddy moon cast a weak aura around them.

  ‘Amazing place,’ Gurkan noted, hastening past the Basilica for the first time, keeping his face hidden.

  ‘Quite a sight,’ Awa added, running beside him.

  ‘Been inside?’ asked Gurkan.

  ‘Haven’t tried.’

  ‘We should go together,’ Gurkan said.

  A gondolier rowed them close to the ghetto. The evening air was muggy, the streets empty. They approached the ghetto from the east, winding past decaying frontages and open drains. In a clearing surrounded by rubble and undergrowth stood an ornate carriage, entirely at odds with the location. Rathbone. Was he waiting for the Knights?

  ‘Psssttt.’ Awa spotted Kostas hiding behind a disused red and white awning, which could have belonged to a shop at one time. They joined him, moving noiselessly.

  ‘Greetings, Kostas. What do you have for us?’ Konjic whispered.

  ‘Not much, Commander, save that Rathbone is in the carriage with that muscle-headed bodyguard, Stukeley. They seem to be waiting for someone.’

  ‘We believe it could be the Knights,’ Konjic informed him. ‘Will has been following them. We need to gain entry to the ghetto, but if we go in through the front, Rathbone will see us.’

  ‘There is a side entrance. It’s guarded by one man,’ Kostas replied.

  ‘All right, lead the way. Ismail, I’d like you to remain here to keep watch. If they leave, do your best to follow them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They trailed after the Greek, ducking and keeping low, making not a sound, as he dodged around broken carts and disused pallets, then past an abandoned foundry. Rusting bars and tubing lay scattered across the ground, creating a hazardous obstacle to traverse in the moonlight. The ghetto walls were on their left. The side entrance became visible where a solitary guard sat on a wooden chair outside, half asleep.

  The unit settled behind a sheet of metal.

  ‘Allow me, sir,’ said Kostas.

  The Commander nodded and Kostas ambled over towards the guard. He spoke in a jovial manner, though Awa could not hear what he was saying. The guard got up from his chair, greeted him. Kostas slipped him some coins and the man momentarily left his post and sauntered away. Kostas waved them over.

  ‘Nicely done,’ murmured Gurkan to the Greek. ‘You have a golden tongue.’

  ‘I am from Athens, my friend, home of Plato. Dialogue and dialectics run in my blood.’

  ‘It’s why the Commander keeps him in the unit. He’s got the gift of the gab, although his martial skills aren’t quite up to it,’ said Mikael, a grin upon his face.

  ‘I’ll show you what’s what with the sword,’ said Kostas, gently barging into Mikael with his shoulder as they strode onwards.

  ‘I’ll remember to ask for you, friend Kostas, next time I’m in a tight spot,’ teased Gurkan.

  30

  CRACKING FIRE

  WILL KNEW HE HAD NO back-up - that there was no one out there, ready to charge in at his command. The Sicarii and the Knights didn’t know that, however. At least, not yet.

  The Knights peered out into the moonlight, scanning the scene outside. Throaty gripped the Staff. Other Sicarii, nervous at what was coming, rushed into the corridor through which Will had entered only moments before, while others shot upstairs. Will stood unmoving, his weapon raised, as did Red-glove and Throaty, in a three-way stand-off.

  Anver. He had forgotten about the blacksmith’s apprentice! The young fellow had half-crawled inside the sack he’d brought. What on earth was he doing?

  ‘It’s a bluff,’ scowled Throaty. ‘Ain’t no Janissaries out there.’

  ‘Better be sure,’ said the red-gloved Knight.

  ‘They’re . . .’ Will started to say, when there was a blast from behind him. Anver’s sack went flying into the air and there was a cacophony of explosions, streaming red and green lights, blinding smoke and what seemed like white snow dropping around them. Fireworks, Will realised – and just in time.

  ‘We’re under attack!’ one of the Sicarii screamed out.

  ‘God’s punishment!’ shouted one of the Knights.

  Bang! Bang! The eruptions had caused chaos. This was the perfect moment. Will made a grab for the Staff. Throaty pulled back.

  ‘The Staff belongs to the Jewish people,’ said Throaty through gritted teeth.

  ‘Why are you selling it, then?’ said Will.

  ‘The Knights of the Fire Cross have paid for custody. Give it to me!’ shouted Red-glove.

  ‘The Staff of Moses belongs in the Topkapi Palace, from where it was stolen,’ Will shouted back.

  Each man pulled the Staff towards him. The Staff began to glow, as if it were on fire. The Sicarii, the Knight and Will stopped pulling, but each still gripped the holy relic, uncertain what was happening. Bang. Flames erupted around the staff.

  ‘A fiery serpent!’ screamed Throaty.

  ‘The wrath of God!’ wailed Red-glove.

  Ka-boom! All three let go at the same time. The Staff remained upright, spinning on its tip, as the firecracker which had been let off at its base engulfed the ancient artefact. Sparks ran up the shaft, before there was an explosion and the firework went off. In the next moment, as they shielded their eyes, Anver shot forwards, grabbed the Staff in a single daring move, and dashed out of the kosher butcher’s courtyard.

  Will was the first to react. He leaped up, kicked the Knight in the face and swung round to hit the Sicarius in the chest with the underside of his boot, knocking the man back onto the ground. A group of Knights were approaching, so he dashed into the corridor, crashing into two Sicarii who were surprised when he barrelled them down, and burst out through the porch onto the street, as the explosive pyrotechnic show continued. One of the goats had managed to free itself, and Will ran straight into it, righting himself and running for his life.

  ‘Get them,’ shouted Red-glove, emerging from the building.

  ‘Feh! Amoretz! You idiots!’ Throaty bellowed.

  Will tore down the street, chasing after the fast-disappearing Anver. The explosions had brought local residents out; they were staring around, confused by the light and sound show from the butcher’s shop. Will took a sharp right and collided with someone; they both ended up on their backsides on the filthy ground.

  ‘Will!’

  Gurkan! The others were also here: Konjic, Kostas, Mikael and Awa. Finally. Was he glad to see them. But there was no time to hang around.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Konjic.

  ‘The Staff of Moses is with . . .’

  ‘Get ’em!’ a voice bawled from behind.

  ‘Why are fireworks going off?’ asked Mikael.

  ‘Some very angry Sicarii and extremely upset Knights are about to come around that corner. Let’s go!’ cried Will, shooting off before Konjic had a chance to respond. The others hesitated, then he heard them pounding after him. Gurkan caught up with him.

  ‘Where’s the Staff?’ asked Gurkan.

  �
�Anver.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Just met him - blacksmith’s apprentice, Jewish - from the ghetto. Helped me out, but made off with the Staff.’

  ‘Another thief then,’ Gurkan retorted.

  ‘Not necessarily. A well-wisher, I think.’

  The road narrowed and they emerged into a small square, at the end of which was the main entrance to the ghetto. Will saw the guards’ bodies lying slumped to one side.

  They left the ghetto and came out by the canal, where a black carriage waited. Will pulled up, the others skidding to a halt around him. An enormous fellow, dressed in pristine black and grey, was holding Anver by the collar over the canal, about to throw him in.

  ‘Will!’ screamed Anver, when he saw him. ‘I can’t swim!’

  The hulk pulled his arm back and propelled Anver into the water, the young blacksmith’s apprentice landing with a fearsome splash. Dusting off his enormous hands, the brute jumped into the carriage. As the door opened and shut, Will glimpsed Sir Reginald Rathbone, sitting on a leather-upholstered seat, clutching the Staff of Moses. Their eyes locked. Rathbone smiled and nodded politely, before the carriage shot off down the narrow roadway. Without a moment’s delay, Will ran to the edge of the canal and dived in. Anver was splashing around, his panicked movements making him sink further.

  ‘Help!’ he gurgled, surfacing.

  Will was beside him in a moment. He placed Anver on his back, told him to stop moving, and swam back to the bank. He couldn’t see any of the Janissaries waiting by the edge to help them out. Fortunately, there was an iron ring, used for tethering boats. He latched onto this, before guiding himself and Anver over to the rung of a mini-ladder fixed against the inner canal wall. The young Venetian clambered up, streaming with water, coughing and retching, Will behind him. As he hauled himself back to land, he saw the Janissaries standing in a line, their backs to him. Ahead of them, spread out, were at least ten Sicarii and four Knights. The Staff was gone, taken by Rathbone. It had been so close, nearly in his grasp, yet once again they had been outwitted. What could the Earl of Rothminster want with the holy wood?

  ‘Nice you could join us,’ quipped Gurkan, as Will took his place beside the Konyan.

  Anver scrambled to one side, still spluttering, eyes full of tears. A small crowd of residents gathered by the walls of the ghetto.

  ‘Draw your weapons,’ Konjic said with calm leadership.

  The Sicarii and Knights charged, running straight at them, weapons swinging. Quicker than anyone else, Awa shot forward - striking her sword into the midriff of a Sicarii who went down. Will was fixing his aim at Throaty, who wore an expression of demonic fury on this face.

  ‘You’ve caused me a lot of grief,’ snarled Throaty, as their weapons clashed, sparks flying. Their blades locked. Will pushed downwards, but Throaty was stronger than him and held his position, before he started to shove Will back. Suddenly Red-glove was at his side, about to strike the killing blow - but his sword was blocked by Gurkan’s blade.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Gurkan muttered, just as Will kicked Throaty in the chest, knocking the air from his body and causing him to stagger back. Another Sicarius attacked with two swords, blades criss-crossing at all angles in a dazzling display. Half-blinded, Will retreated, his steps uncertain. He was on the bank now, the canal behind him, when the Sicarius swept low with his blade. Will jumped, clearing the sword, and in the same movement swivelled his own weapon, striking his opponent on the wrist, causing one of the Sicarius’ swords to clatter to the ground. In doing so, Will’s own weapon flew from his grip, so that by the time he landed he was unarmed and defenceless. The Sicarius bared his teeth in a rictus smile, which disappeared when Will butted him in the stomach, sending him flying backwards. Will then snatched up his weapon and flicked it behind him at the Sicarius, who toppled into the canal.

  He watched Awa driving her opponent back. Gurkan was still engaged in a duel with Red-glove. Konjic and Kostas were fighting, backs against one another, seeing off a couple of opponents. Mikael was by himself, but becoming surrounded. He needed help. Will dashed over, but was met halfway by Throaty, chopping wildly at him with his sword. Will avoided it by a hair’s breadth as he skidded to a halt - but he was being driven back towards a pack of Sicarii behind him. Will leaped forwards, his blade aimed at his opponent’s heart; the man blocked it. Will followed up with a knee in the stomach, before ramming his elbow into his enemy’s Adam’s apple, sending Throaty, choking and clutching his throat, to his knees. Will raised his weapon to finish the job, but thought better of it.

  By now, Mikael’s opponents had pummelled him to the ground. Will charged into the pack, scattering them, allowing the Janissary to get back on his feet. In the next moment, Gurkan joined them. The Sicarii were about to attack, when one of them pulled the others back. Hesitating, they glanced over at the Knights, who were down to their last man. The sole Knight contemplated the scene, before fleeing by leaping into the canal and hiding under the bank, clinging to the ladder, weighed down by his clothes and sword. Once he had gone, the Sicarii collected up their fallen, including Throaty, who remained unconscious. Giving a last threatening look behind them, they trudged off in the direction of the ghetto, where the crowd abruptly dispersed.

  Mikael and Kostas took a step in the direction of the Sicarii, but Konjic pulled them back. ‘No, leave them, we know the identity of the puppet-master,’ he said.

  ‘Turks!’ someone shouted. The voice came from the canal area. ‘Turks!’

  Will looked - the voice was coming from the water. The Knight was hollering at the top of his voice. ‘Turks!’

  Lamps came on, doors opened, a bell was rung. Konjic ordered: ‘Back to the Blue Flag. At the double.’

  ‘Will!’ Anver cried out.

  Will called back, ‘I’m sorry, friend Anver, I have to leave. Come with us!’

  Anver took a step towards him, then halted, peering back at the ghetto. Sadly, he shook his head. Raising his hand in farewell, Will pelted off to join his unit as the cries of ‘Turks!’ spread through the streets and canals of Venice.

  31

  CHALK AND CARRIAGE

  WHITE CHALK CLIFFS LOOMED AHEAD. Awa and the crew had packed up and left Venice immediately after returning from the ghetto. Konjic’s idea of retaining a vessel, ready to depart at a moment’s notice, had proved to be sound. Upon receiving word, the Captain mobilised his sailors, who ensured that the vessel was soon out of port and into the calm waters of the Adriatic.

  Fortunately, the rumour that Turks were in the city had not yet reached the harbourmaster, so a close inspection of the vessel was not required. Prior to leaving, Konjic composed a letter to the Grand Vizier, notifying him of developments and informing him that they were heading to England to track down the Staff, now with the Englishman, the Earl of Rothminster.

  Their voyage took several days, sailing around the coast of Italy, then past Malta, before approaching the narrow Straits of Gibraltar which separated Africa from Europe. As their ship cruised past Jebel Tariq, the mountain after which Gibraltar was named, Awa peered south to the continent where she longed to be, while Will was drawn to what lay north. The irony of the situation was not lost on Konjic, who smiled in an avuncular manner when Awa mentioned it to him.

  Thereafter the sea grew stormy, the wind blustery. Awa’s skin became dry and flaky, as though it were crumbling from the cold. It was late autumn, yet in this place it felt like winter. She pondered what the weather was like further north. Her father had read to her from the journal of Ahmed ibn Fadlan, a tenth-century diplomat from Baghdad who had travelled to the land of the Volga Vikings. In it, he described a Viking Chief’s burial, longboats, mist-monsters and the near-death episodes he had experienced amidst these martial yet unsophisticated peoples. Was she about to experience something of the same in her voyage north?

  South or north, the world was a dangerous place wherever you went. Only when one returned to the Creator of the Worlds did the soul at
tain peace – one’s worldly existence was a struggle. Awa had come to realise the truth of this over the past few months, when everything she knew had been turned upside down, every bond broken, all hope scattered. Living day-to-day, how could she ever plan ahead, when recent experience made her wary of becoming reliant on anything or anybody?

  Sailing in from the English Channel was a choppy affair, as strong gusts pitched their vessel side to side, reducing Gurkan’s sea legs to jelly once more. The port at which they docked was called Dover - a remote outpost on a distant island, bordered by white cliffs. The bleakness weighed heavy on her, yet Awa consoled herself with the knowledge that above the clouds, somewhere the sun still shone.

  Upon encountering the first English people, Will was very excited, like a child being given sweetmeats. His dream had come true: he was back in the land of his fathers at long last.

  Konjic assumed Rathbone had returned to England. If so, he wouldn’t be far ahead of them.

  Kostas set about organising accommodation for their first evening in a town called Canterbury, a carriage-ride away from Dover. Their transport was large enough to hold all six of them and their luggage. It was drawn by four horses, with a driver sat outside, wearing a heavy overcoat against the chill. Awa felt her skin crawl when his ratty gaze swept her from head to toe, as if he were pondering what lay beneath her outer garments. Konjic was last inside and sat beside the door, Awa next to him and Kostas on her other side. Opposite sat Will, Gurkan in the middle and Ismail beside him. Mikael sat on the floor in the space between the two sets of seats.

  ‘You comfortable down there?’ Kostas asked Mikael.

  ‘Not really, but don’t worry, I’ll swap with one of the cubs soon,’ Mikael replied.

  ‘Let me know, I’m ready,’ Gurkan offered.

  ‘Give it a bit more time, especially after you spent the entire sea voyage heaving your guts up,’ said Mikael.

  Gurkan’s face went pale. ‘Best not to remind me of that episode in my life.’