“No? Then might I ask you, one soldier to another, to briefly address your purpose? My men have ridden hard and long, and some of us are wounded.”
“I have come to warn you, O King. A friendly gesture from men who respect you.”
“I value the respect of the Janissaries, though I am unworthy of it. Speak your warning, my friend.”
“It is just this. The Sublime Porte is withdrawing its protection from the infidel city.”
“So I have heard. But as an infidel, how should this trouble me?”
“Iron Head, you have long been friend to the sultan, the enemy of his enemy, the Russian tsar. He therefore wishes you to understand that, with his protection withdrawn from Venice, he cannot speak for what will happen to you without his sword and shield above you.”
“The sultan sent me this word himself?”
The Turk shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “We in the ochak know the sultan’s mind well enough.”
Charles smiled sardonically. “Well enough to give a warning that the sultan might have neglected?”
“As you say,” the Turk responded, his face like stone. “The sultan is very busy.”
Charles nodded knowingly. “I deeply appreciate your words, my friend, but I also have many matters weighing on my heart. Indebted as I am to you for this warning, I fear I cannot heed it. My soldiers are quartered in Venice—”
“At a word from you, Iron Head, they can be escorted safely from there, if haste is made.”
Charles paused for a bare instant before continuing. “My soldiers are there,” he repeated, “and I will see them. And I will speak to my brother the beylerbey, a final time.”
A brief look of what might well have been contempt flitted across the Turk’s face. “He leaves by morning.”
“Then it’s fortunate that I arrive now. But more important than the beylerbey, I wish to speak to my brothers the Janissaries. Do you think that possible?”
“In Allah, all things are possible,” the Turk replied. “But you have a full boluk before you. We are the eyes and ears of our brothers. What would you say to us?”
“I would say it in the city,” Charles said. “Would you hinder me?”
A long tense silence followed, before finally the Turk shook his head. “We would not hinder you, Iron Head. We will escort you to the city. And we would be honored to have you in our kitchen.”
“The honor is all mine,” Charles replied.
“A city wi’ streets of water,” Robert murmured, as the procession of Janissary longboats bore them up a broad canal. His gaze moved from side to side, where liquid alleys wound back into the city, crowded with elegant gondolas jostling one another as might pedestrians and sedan chairs in a more mundane city.
“It is a place of wonder,” Ben agreed, “though I could hope for a better smell.” The scent was that of Roxbury flats on a bad day, a sour, briny odor with a considerable bouquet of sewage added.
“It is a bit on the nois’m side,” Robert allowed.
The seduction of the city had not diminished with contact, though it had lost something of its ethereal quality. Ben mused that it was like seeing a new lover unclothed for the first time. The view from a distance was like the fancy clothes, the paint and powder, hiding imperfections, accentuating assets. Closer, one saw the pores, the warts, the irregularities. And yet for Ben that had never made a woman less enticing, but rather more so. So too, with Venice, now that he could see the crumbling pilings, the dark forms of rats scampering along narrow ledges, offal and human waste floating by. Venice gained strength over him as she gained reality to his eye.
But in all of this discovery, there was yet discord. To gain the city, they had passed the massive forms of Turkish galleys, ornate and Oriental, their myriad oars awaiting the hands of slaves to row them, swarming with colorful figures preparing to lift the hand of the sultan from the Veneto. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be a cause for celebration, for the Turk had ruled in Venice for near twenty years. But when they were gone, more terrible ships would stoop from the skies. How long did they have?
“Do you know what passed earlier?” Ben asked Robert wearily, trying to raise his hand to wave back at a group of girls leaning from an upper window.
“Something, I think, from speaking with the Swedes. These fellows—” He gestured at the Turks in the other boats. “—are Janissaries.”
“So I gather, though I know not what that may be.”
“Soldiers, but of an especial sort. Many began life as Christians, but were captured by the Turks in childhood, enslaved, and raised to be perfect warriors. They’re called fanatical, without mercy ’r pity.”
“And yet they seemed well disposed toward King Charles.”
“King Charles has earned their respect, at least as his own men tell it. From what I gather, some think better of him than their own sultan, who is, after all, no warrior. They see a kindred spirit, a fellow madman-soldier. What I think happened back there is that the Janissaries disobeyed their orders.”
“How so?”
“We know that the sultan and the tsar have struck a bargain; the Turks will withdraw from Venice, leaving King Charles without their protection. He will either have to flee back toward Sweden—which is now mostly in Moscovado and Danish hands, and so no haven—or further away yet.”
“But the Muscovites and the Ottomans are enemies.”
“Perhaps both see fit to settle their differences and divide the world between them,” Robert said. “If so, that leaves only the problem of Charles, for the tsar will not conclude peace with him here, and Charles will never stop trying to incite the sultan ’gainst the tsar. Add to that the Janissaries—the real power and backbone of the empire—are disposed to listen to our friend ‘Iron Head.’ ”
“So Venice is a trap. The Turks withdraw, the Muscovite hosts move in—”
“And the rumor is that once Charles is captured or fled, the tsar withdraws as well.”
“Leaving Venice to whom?”
“The Venetians, perhaps. More likely the Turk will then return. Who knows?”
“Shell games!” Ben muttered. “The shell games of tyrants.”
“Don’t forget our friend Frisk is such a tyrant.”
“But a very unusual one, Robin, one that labors earnest for his respect.”
“Aye, and see where he is. A valiant insect about t’ be trod beneath the feet of giants.”
Ben shrugged. “More’s the pity, for despite his deception, I like our King Frisk very much. But you and I cannot be bothered with that, now. It’s for us to find Newton and Lenka.”
“Oh? And how will you find Newton? Assuming Frisk was even correct to say that Newton came here?”
Ben mustered the energy to grin as he pulled something from his pocket; a metal bar, dangling upon a thread. It swung aimlessly for a moment and then pointed with unusual certainty into the deeps of the city. “I know not precisely where Newton may be,” Ben said, “but his boat lies yonder.”
“Near?”
“Watch how the needle moves, as we do. Were he far away, we would not discern any motion.”
Robert nodded, staring at the lines of the buildings against the sky. “It’s a strange course we’ve steered, Benjamin,” he grunted.
“I doubt not ’twill steer stranger before all is done.”
Robert nodded, turning his head farther, and gasped.
“Holy Jesus! Look there, Ben!”
Ben turned his head, and for a moment did not understand. The canal before them opened into what could only be described as a vast aqueous plaza, bustling with gondolas, small sail craft, barges, longboats. But beyond them—through a gap that led to open sea—lay deep-going ships, at which Robert seemed to be vaguely aiming with his finger. But then Ben saw. Among the Byzantine galleys, brigantines, tartanes, pinks, galliots—amidst a chaos of banners and sail—stood the straight, tall mast of a New York sloop, the same as he had watched coming into Boston harbor a hundred times.
At its highest point, proud in the Mediterranean breeze, fluttered the king’s jack.
Tears starting in his eyes, Ben reached over to clasp Robert’s hand for an instant. “I believe,” he said, “that we can add one more thing to be done.”
He awoke in a narrow but comfortable bed, puzzled. The last thing he remembered clearly was watching that improbable king’s jack and the sudden, deep conviction that things would be well.
He rubbed his eyes and looked around, and the hair on his scalp pricked up.
Turks. He was in a room full of Turks, and no European to be seen anywhere.
“You feel better, English?”
Ben looked up, startled, to find a young man in a striped gown behind him. He looked perhaps eighteen, had large, black eyes in a long, almost feminine face.
“You speak English,” Ben said, stupidly. In close to three years he had heard his mother language only from Robert and Sir Isaac, and it was a shock to hear it on the lips of this foreign man.
“Yes, some. It has been a long time since I use it. Can you eat something?”
“Can I?” His belly felt like a cavern. “Indeed!”
“Good. I return anon.”
He turned and strode down the room, a narrow gallery with high, bright windows. There were a number of other beds, some occupied. He counted five Turks in the chamber—all men—who gazed at him for a moment and then returned to chattering in their own language.
Ben noticed that he was clean, and wondered who had bathed him and why he hadn’t wakened. He also noted that his chest was freshly bandaged, and that the throbbing there seemed considerably tamer. He wondered where Robert, Charles, and the rest were.
A few moments later, the young man returned, carrying a dish of bread, crumbly looking cheese, and small, black, oblong fruits. Ben started into the bread and cheese like a starved animal.
“What are these?” he asked, through a mouthful, gesturing at the fruit.
“Olives. Careful of pits.”
“Olives. Huh.” He knew olives from the Bible, of course, but had never paused to wonder exactly what one might taste like. He tried one tentatively. It wasn’t bad, exactly: a little bitter and quite salty. By the time he finished the last, the taste had begun to grow on him.
“Thank you,” he told the fellow, and then, sticking out his hand said, “My name is Benjamin Franklin.”
“Hassim,” the boy replied, taking his hand.
“Thank you, Hassim. May I inquire where I am?”
“Yes, of course. You in my father’s house.”
“Your father is one of the men who brought me here—one of the Janissaries?”
“Yes,” Hassim said, proudly. “He is Corbasi.”
Charles had used that term, Ben remembered, in speaking to the leader of the Janissaries. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
“It is like—eh—general? Colonel? He commands the orta. Orta is like—like regiment.”
Ben nodded. “And you? You are a Janissary, too?”
Hassim cast his face down a bit. “Allah does not will it. Son of Janissary may not be Janissary.”
“Oh.” Ben shifted uncomfortably. The room smelled sweet, as did Hassim. Like perfume or incense.
“Hassim, where are my friends?”
“King Charles is waiting to meet with the ochak—”
“Ochak?”
“Janissary. It means—a place where cooking is done for many. Because we say the Janissaries always eat together, you see? Like family. So they are called ochak.”
“Like family.” Those diamond-eyed men, like family? He tried to picture them eating, talking, joking together.
“What of my other friend?”
“Another room, sleeping. You want to see him?”
“No—no, wait until he wakes, thank you. I—” He stopped for a moment, wondering whether it was wise to bring the matter up, but then plunged on.
“Have you heard of a man arriving—um—arriving in a boat flying through the air?”
Hassim’s eyes widened. “You mean sihirbaz?”
“Sihirbaz?”
“Come flying in boat, four days ago. Small boat.”
“You saw this?”
“Others saw. Think him sihirbaz sent by tsar.”
“Sihirbaz? What is that?”
“Ah—warlock? One who puts spells.”
“And is he still there? Still at that place?”
“As I hear, yes. Some went to talk to him, but could not. Sihirbaz in old fortress there, sealed it up with spells. Janissaries can’t get in.”
“No one has spoken to him?”
“He says he will speak only to Iron Head.”
“Ah. Was there—Do they say there was a woman with him? In the boat?”
Hassim shrugged. “Do not know of that.”
Ben pursed his lips. No matter how mad he was, Newton wouldn’t have hurt Lenka. Surely not.
Hassim bowed slightly. “I have duties,” he said, sounding apologetic.
Ben fought down an impatient snarl. He wanted to ask more, but honestly couldn’t think of how to pursue the matter. Clearly, it was Charles he needed to speak to.
“Can you tell me where Iron Head is?”
“No,” Hassim finished, and grinned briefly. “He moves much. Always moving.” With two fingers he pantomimed a man walking, and Ben nodded agreement.
“Where does he sleep?” Ben asked.
“Remains to be seen. Has not slept yet,” Hassim said, and then, nodding politely, went on, “I will ask—about woman, about Swedish king, yes? But now I must go.”
“Thank you,” Ben said, “and tell your father I thank him for his hospitality.”
Hassim grinned and nodded.
If it is hospitality, Ben thought. If I am not merely a prisoner in a pretty prison.
Once Hassim was gone, he tried standing, and found that his feet—and to a lesser extent, his legs—were a mass of running sores, blisters that had burst, formed again, burst again. Still, it was not as bad as he had envisioned, and the more general pain in his muscles was fading to almost the pleasant soreness of regeneration. The only wound that still worried him was the sword cut, which pulsed feverishly now and then. Or was that, he wondered, in part perhaps something else, not on his chest but in it?
Standing, he could gaze out the windows, at the broad stretch of water he had seen while coming up the canal. He picked through the masts of the ships again until he found the English flag, and sighed in relief, afraid it had been some illusion. In fact, now he could see at least three and maybe a fourth—the sloop, a caravel, and a big frigate obscuring possibly another. He found himself growing excited again. Who were they? Were they from London? Was there, after all, a chance that the city had survived?
But English ships had sailed every sea in the world. There was no reason to become hopeful about the impossible, not when he had so many tasks remaining him. Contacting the English ships was important, and it seemed the easiest of what lay before him—if in fact he had freedom of movement, and if the Muscovite ships did not arrive too quickly.
Reaching Newton and Lenka was another matter. His needle might point to the boat, but even if they were near, how would he find the place, in a city where he spoke none of the languages? What did they speak here, anyway? Some Italian dialect, he supposed, and Turkish, of course. One of the Turks had spoken German, but he doubted that German—or English—would get him far in the streets of Venice.
Streets? There might not be any streets. He would need a boat, or money to pay a boatman. He had a few Bohemian crowns left, but they might not pass as currency.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where his clothes were, which meant that he didn’t know if he had any money or not—or even his compass needle! He frantically cast about in search of them, heart sinking. To his vast relief he found them in a striped cotton bag laid neatly under his bed. Money and needle were both there.
To that extent, at least, these Turks
were honest, not at all what he had expected given the tales he had heard.
Well, then, he knew roughly where Newton—and, he hoped, Lenka—were. If they were still alive.
The thought of Lenka being dead did nothing to improve his spirits. In fact, it made him somewhat sick—and now that he thought upon it, he was much more concerned about finding Lenka than Newton. He supposed that made sense, since he was responsible for whatever mess she was in, whereas Newton could damn well take care of himself. Then, too, was the elementary fact that Lenka was a lovely girl, and so naturally he—
He blinked. When had he begun thinking of Lenka as beautiful? Hadn’t he first thought her rather plain?
He frowned. He did not like this, this thing his mind had done without his permission.
“Well, my young Turk,” a voice called from behind. “Shall we raid the harim together?”
He turned, shaking his finger at Robert’s familiar voice. “Best watch your tongue, infidel, around the faithful.” Indeed, he noticed that a few of the men were glaring at both of them. Robert, who wore a sort of dressing gown and looked a good deal cleaner than last Ben had seen him, noticed too.
“Wup,” he said. “Maybe both of us should. Y’ never know what will set this sort off.”
“Have you just wakened?”
“A few moments ago, but I held off on sleeping longer than you. If they’d desired to drown me in the tub, they’d have had something of a fight. You, on th’ other hand—”
“I slept through bathing?” Ben marveled.
“It did give them all great amusement,” Robert said, “I’ll not hide that from you. But look at us, here, alive, clad in fine robes in some pasha’s palace—”
“We’ve done well enough,” Ben agreed. “Shall we discuss our plans?”
“I think it best we get the lay of the land, first.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just spoke with one of the Swedes. He said that the king’s discussion w’ the bey-yay-what didn’t go well. Apparently his Swedish majesty burst in on this Turkish potentate, complete with grime and blood and horse sweat.”
“No!”
“Yes! He demanded that the Turkish withdrawal cease, that they stay here and fight the tsar. The bey did refuse, an’ scurried from the city this morning, as the Janissaries said he would.”
A Calculus of Angels Page 33