‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘The poor woman drank the wrong cider,’ Mr Ascham said, staring resolutely forward. ‘Back at that tavern, both she and Giles ordered perry. But she must have inadvertently switched her mug of cider for that of Giles. It was laced with something, a poison of some sort, something that was intended to make him fall ill, not her. Do not forget the Sultan’s man who has been following us—it would have been easy for him to pay the barkeep’s boy to add something to Giles’s drink.’
I spun where I sat, glancing from Mrs Ponsonby’s shuddering body to Mr Giles on his horse nearby. ‘But . . . why? Why invite Mr Giles to play in the tournament and then poison him on the way?’
‘Ah, the Sultan did not invite Giles. He invited our king to send a player. The Sultan did not know who Henry would send. But evidently the Sultan’s man has been watching and evaluating Mr Giles’s play and has found Giles to be a threat worthy of hobbling.’ Mr Ascham shook his head grimly. ‘I have not even met this Sultan yet and already I do not like the rules by which he plays.’
The lands of the Ottoman Turks were, I must admit, far more impressive than I had anticipated.
Their roads, some of them dating back to Roman times, were paved and clean and kept in excellent condition with few ruts or potholes. Their houses were sturdy and well built, and the Turkish people—unlike their surly Wallachian neighbours—were bathed and clean, wore brightly coloured clothing and were friendly. Many smiled at us as we passed by on our way to their capital.
‘I had expected the lands of the Ottomans to be, well, more backward,’ I said to my teacher.
Mr Ascham said, ‘Every nation thinks their own culture is the pinnacle of civilisation and that all other cultures are primitive and barbarous. It is a sad but natural prejudice of the human mind. This is why one must travel as much as one can. Travel is the finest form of education.’
Soon after arriving in those lands, I beheld for the first time a Moslem place of worship: the peculiar style of domed church that the Moslems call a mosque. I would see many more and they all followed the same basic architecture: each had a slender tower rising from it called a minaret and at prayer times, a male singer would mount this tower and from its summit call the faithful to prayer with a most unsettling elongated wail.
I was now truly in a foreign land.
Although I would never have admitted it to my teacher, I must confess that he was right: travel was the finest form of education and I was experiencing a tremendous thrill from our journey. Travelling abroad, and so very far from England, had shown me how cloistered my life back home was. Later in my life, a life during which I would encounter many kings and dignitaries, I often wondered if the difference between great rulers and poor ones was the amount of travel they had done before their coronation.
And then one morning, after four weeks of overland travel, we crested a rise and my breath caught in my throat. I was looking at the great city of Constantinople.
It was a stunning metropolis—a rolling sea of cream-coloured buildings and white-painted mosques, all interspersed with high trees and the odd taller Roman structure. Bathed in the dusty light of the Turkish sun and framed by the glittering golden waters of the Bosphorus Strait, the pale buildings of the city took on an almost heavenly appearance. My first glimpse of Constantinople was literally a breathtaking experience.
The core of the city was nestled on a sharp peninsula that lanced eastward into the Sea of Marmara—into which the Bosphorus flowed—and it was protected by a massive eighty-foot-high defensive wall that had been built by the Roman Emperor Theodosius a thousand years before.
The mighty wall—it looked like one wall, but it was, in fact, actually two walls—ran from north to south, cutting the peninsula off from the mainland. At each extremity, the great barrier extended all the way to the water’s edge. There were several fortified gates spaced at regular intervals along the wall, but the primary one was an immense portal known as the Golden Gate even though its thick studded doors were made of bronze (the original golden ones were long lost to history).
In the far distance, obscured by the hazy air peculiar to the lands of the East, I observed a great hulk of a building that made Theodosius’s wall look puny: it had a colossal dome and a towering minaret that soared into the sky and was easily the largest structure in the city.
We left our guardsmen at the Golden Gate: foreign troops were forbidden to enter the city. Once inside, as distinguished guests, we would be escorted by the Sultan’s crimson-robed palace guards.
But the city’s guards stopped short at the sight of Primrose Ponsonby.
Concerned that she might be bringing plague into their city, they refused outright to admit her. No argument or exhortation could sway them. In the end, Mr Ascham decided that Mrs Ponsonby would lodge with our soldiers at an inn in the ramshackle market village that had attached itself to the outer side of the massive gate. Her doting husband, clearly distraught, would remain with her until she recovered.
Yet even in her feverish state, Mrs Ponsonby found the energy to ask Mr Ascham: ‘But who will watch over Miss Elizabeth?’
‘I will,’ Mr Ascham said.
I had to turn away so that none of them could see the smile that had arisen unbidden on my face.
Inside the walls of Byzantium, my teacher would be my chaperone.
PAWN
IN CHESS, QUEENS, KNIGHTS, rooks and bishops can make powerful sweeping moves, but the humble pawn cannot.
This is because the pawn represents the ordinary infantryman. Lacking a horse or any other source of power, he can only move a single square at a time (except for his opening move) and then only forward or diagonally. Even the emasculated king can move backwards.
Pawns are weak. They are small. They are often exchanged for little or no tactical gain.
But we love them. We love their nerveless obstinacy in the face of attack, their modest aspirations in life and their unswerving loyalty to their king.
Is it not passing strange how often, in the latter stages of a game, the king finds himself abandoned by his queen, his religious advisors, his castles and his mounted lords, yet defended by a few loyal pawns?
Forgotten, mistreated and regularly sacrificed in pursuit of strategies of which they may not have even been aware, pawns somehow always manage to be there at the end.
From: Chess in the Middle Ages,
Tel Jackson (W.M. Lawry & Co., London, 1992)
I was one day present when she [Elizabeth] replied at the same time to three ambassadors, the Imperial, French, and Swedish, in three languages: Italian to one, French to the other, Latin to the third; easily, without hesitation, clearly, and without being confused.
– ROGER ASCHAM
INTO BYZANTIUM
WE WERE CONVEYED THROUGH Constantinople in glorious gold-rimmed carriages reserved for visiting players and their companions.
While travelling across the Continent, I must confess to the sins of vanity and pride: despite my teacher’s comment about the natural prejudices of all people, I felt I could honestly say that England surpassed the other lands of Europe in both complexity and cultural sophistication. But as we passed through the Golden Gate and rolled out onto the streets of Constantinople in our splendid carriages, I could not in good conscience come to the same conclusion about my homeland when compared to the Ottoman capital.
Put simply, Byzantium made England’s greatest city, my beloved London, look like a Wallachian hamlet.
Grand boulevards swept past bustling bazaars and sleek marble buildings. Many-arched aqueducts shot across valleys, bringing water to the million-strong population, while bath-houses still bearing Roman paint opened onto fountain-filled plazas. We passed some commercial docks on the southern side of the peninsula; they were packed with ships, loading and unloading cargo.
People went about their business on cobblestone streets, trading, shouting, conversing, smoking. Children played in alleys; men walked about i
n loose-fitting robes, obviously unarmed. Many women, however, wore cloaks that covered every inch of their bodies including their faces. They looked out at the world through gauze meshes and walked with their heads bowed subserviently a few paces behind their husbands.
Upon entering the city, Mr Ascham had suggested that Elsie and I don similar attire, scarves that covered our heads and cloaks that extended all the way to our wrists and ankles. I obeyed, but not before asking why this was necessary.
‘Some Moslem holy men believe that an unveiled woman will stir a man’s loins and provoke him to unseemly acts,’ he said. ‘So they demand women cover themselves in public.’
‘But that’s absurd! Why should the woman change her dress when it is the man’s urges that are at issue? Why not call upon the men of Islam to control themselves?’
Mr Ascham shrugged sadly. ‘I have found that it is rarely useful to question people on the practices of their faiths. What people do in the name of religion is not necessarily religious. It often has baser reasons behind it.’
At this point we rounded a bend and emerged on a wide square, and there before us sat the immense domed building I had glimpsed earlier through the haze.
It lorded over all before it like a king on his throne: the great cathedral to holy wisdom. Known to the Turks as the Ayasofya, in Latin as the Sancta Sophia, and to Europeans as the Hagia Sophia, it was Isidore of Miletus’s masterpiece.
From a squat, square, fortress-like base, the stupendous building soared heavenward in a sequence of ever-rising domes buttressed by gargantuan pillars and supports, until it reached the largest hemisphere of them all, the breathtaking main dome that surmounted the structure.
This main dome—my teacher informed me with even more than his usual enthusiasm—was nothing less than the greatest feat of engineering in the whole world, all the more so for having been built in the sixth century. The dome itself was fully one hundred feet across, spanning the Hagia’s vast nave in one giant leap, soaring an incredible two hundred feet above the basilica’s floor.
‘Until recently, no other cathedral in Christendom has come close to it in size and ingenuity of design,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘It is as if the knowledge that built it was lost for a millennium and has only recently been rediscovered. Originally it was built as a Christian church, but with the taking of Constantinople by the Moslems in 1453, it was converted to a mosque. Note the minaret alongside it is built with more modern bricks.’ He indicated the slim red-brick spire constructed beside the main structure. ‘Having said that, despite its colossal size and ingenious construction, because of its Christian origins, many Moslems of this city feel indifferent toward the Hagia Sophia and refuse to worship in it.’
I did not feel indifferent toward it. I gazed up at it in absolute wonder, humbled by its history, majesty and immensity.
We pressed on, moving around the Hagia Sophia toward the Sultan’s palace, which occupied the very tip of the peninsula.
I felt like I was walking into a fabulous and exotic world. England, with its grey skies, muddy streets, feuding dukes and disputed successions, seemed completely and wholly backward compared to this.
Upon seeing Constantinople, I could see why my teacher had brought me here.
THE PALACE OF THE SULTAN
PASSING THE MIGHTY HAGIA SOPHIA, we arrived at the Sultan’s palace.
Mounted on a high promontory overlooking the Sea of Marmara to the south and the Bosphorus Strait to the east, it claimed the most strategic and commanding position in the city. A striking tower rose from within its own set of high stone walls.
‘That tower is the Adalet Kulesi, the Tower of Justice,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘The Moslems pride themselves on being a just and fair people.’
‘Are they?’
Mr Ascham cocked his head. ‘Some say they are overly zealous in their pursuit of justice. Thieves have their hands cut off. Adulterers are stoned. Do you think this is just?’
I pondered this. ‘Crimes must be punished so that order is maintained.’
‘True. But shouldn’t a punishment be commensurate with the crime?’ my teacher said. ‘If we executed every adulterer in England, the population would be reduced by half.’
‘We hang thieves in England,’ I said. ‘Here they only lose a hand. Harsh, swift punishments make for secure streets.’
‘They certainly do,’ Mr Ascham said, just as we passed a young man with a stump for a right hand. ‘The question every society must ask itself is: how much force are people willing to accept in exchange for the safety of their persons and possessions?’
I frowned. ‘I don’t think I know the answer to that.’
Mr Ascham smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. For the answer to that question is a balancing act for every king and queen. Tyrannical rulers get deposed and beheaded. Weak ones find themselves manipulated by cunning lords and duplicitous advisors. Successful rulers find the balance that suits their time.’
I nodded at the palace ahead of us. ‘And in your opinion is this Sultan Suleiman a successful ruler?’
‘The Moslem people follow the edicts of a great prophet named Muhammad who instilled in them a respect for a higher law. This is the mark of every great society in history: the realisation that all folk, rich and poor alike, are better off abiding by accepted laws rather than the sword. For only once laws are in place can a society truly flourish: the protection of the law gives a population safety and security, and once people have that, they happily contribute to their society. Farmers farm, warriors train for war, artists paint, playwrights write. People become experts in trades and occupations and so society advances at an even greater rate. All because the people accepted basic laws.’
‘What happens in societies that don’t accept such laws?’
‘They end up marching on the spot,’ Mr Ascham said sadly. ‘Look at Africa. There the native tribes still fight each other with spears and sticks, engaging in raids for food and women. Every time a new tribe wins a battle, society has to start all over again, so there is no progress.’
‘With respect, didn’t you tell me only recently that, ultimately, force prevails?’ I said, not a little cheekily.
My teacher half smiled at me. ‘I’m pleased to see you were paying attention. And you are right, you’ve found a paradox in my argument. The only answer I can give you is this: a society of laws is the best we have come up with, but unfortunately not every society chooses to go down that path.’
We came to the Sultan’s palace, and truly it was a wonder of the world.
We passed through an immense and well-guarded outer gate and stepped out into a wide grassy courtyard shaded by many trees. Through this courtyard stretched a broad curving path that brought us to a second gate in a smaller but still sizeable wall.
This inner gate was called the Gate of Salutation and it was surmounted by two triangular spires that looked to me more European than Ottoman. Our guards explained that the gateway had been designed and built recently by Hungarian architects brought to Constantinople by the Sultan. To my eyes, it looked very Hungarian: overdone and dandyish.
After passing through this gate, we were met by an official party of ministers dressed in red silk robes and high white turbans. Some black African eunuchs stood behind them.
Leading the official party was the sadrazam, the Grand Vizier or chief minister to the Sultan. While the others all wore turbans, the sadrazam alone wore one with a beautiful snow-white heron plume rising from its linen coils. He was an exceedingly tall and thin fellow and he bowed low as our player, Mr Giles, was introduced by a herald.
The herald spoke first in Turkish and then in Greek, which, we were told, would be used as a common language at the tournament: ‘Mr Gilbert Giles! Representative of King Henry the Eighth, King of England, Ireland and France!’
The sadrazam shook Mr Giles’s hand.
‘Gentlemen. Welcome to the city of Constantine,’ he said in English. Forgetting myself, I gasped in surprise at his command of m
y mother tongue.
This caught the sadrazam’s attention and he spied me. ‘Why, hello, little girl.’ He moved toward me. ‘I am Mustafa. What is your name?’
‘Elizabeth, sir,’ I said, bowing.
‘Are you an enthusiast of chess, Miss Elizabeth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You play?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah, the English.’ He turned to his own group, switching to an archaic form of Latin that I could actually understand. ‘A most bizarre people. Imagine it, girls playing chess. I have even heard that girls go to school there. And they once had a ruling queen.’
His retinue all recoiled as one in shock.
‘You do not have queens in the Moslem world?’ I inquired politely, also in Latin.
The sadrazam whirled at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide at the realisation that I had understood him perfectly.
‘But of course we do,’ he said in Greek, recovering, his eyes cold. ‘Only they do not rule. They are merely vessels for the Sultan’s seed, wombs on legs, useful only for the production of heirs and troublesome the rest of the time.’ He turned from me, our conversation over, and with a tight smile addressed Mr Giles and Mr Ascham.
‘Gentlemen, you must be tired from your journey. These eunuchs will escort you to your quarters in the south pavilion. Tomorrow evening, His Majesty the Sultan will host a banquet in honour of the players. It will begin at sunset. Good day to you.’
THE CITY OF CONSTANTINE
WE SETTLED INTO OUR QUARTERS—three small but well-appointed rooms gathered around a central entry vestibule. Mr Ascham and Mr Giles had a room each while Elsie and I shared. That evening I delighted in a wonderful night’s sleep in a comfortable bed under a solid roof.
The following day we ventured out into the city.
Up close, it was even busier than I had at first perceived.
One immense bazaar, known as the Grand Bazaar, was simply the greatest marketplace I had ever seen and it was all contained under a single gigantic roof. Stalls stretched as far as the eye could see. Chaos reigned. It seemed that everywhere there was movement and noise: carpet sellers mixed with root farmers who traded with spice merchants who yelled at shepherd boys whose lambs strayed among their sacks. If the Bosphorus Strait marked the dividing line between Europe and the Orient, this was the spot where European and Oriental commerce collided.
The Tournament Page 5
