The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  Mr Ascham gave me a sideways look. ‘This surprises you?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘I must confess I quite enjoy surprising you. Some years ago, Michelangelo read a treatise I wrote as a student about education and he invited me to Rome to meet with him. Of course, I leapt at the invitation. I ended up instructing his beloved grandnephew for six months and in so doing we became friends. I watched him paint some of The Last Judgment, one of the greatest privileges of my life.’

  I had never actually contemplated my teacher having a life before he began teaching me, let alone one of exotic travel and of meeting great artists.

  And there was another thing. ‘And what happened with the Earl of Cumberland’s son at Cambridge? My father also mentioned this in his note to you.’

  Mr Ascham’s face darkened. ‘It was a most unpleasant affair involving the son of a powerful man and his . . . distasteful . . . proclivities. It is not a story for young ears.’

  ‘Was it to do with passion?’ I said in a voice that I hoped sounded mature and experienced. ‘Fornication even?’

  My teacher gave me a long look before he answered. ‘It did indeed have something to do with the young man’s urges. He would hire prostitutes from other towns and . . . do things . . . to them before killing the poor women. But you do not need to know the whole sordid tale. I was brought in to act as an impartial judge on the matter but due to my, well, overzealous curiosity, I discovered more than anyone wanted to know. Now, please, let us engage in more pleasant topics and enjoy this marvellous evening.’

  As he said this, we passed through a large doorway in the very corner of the courtyard and entered the kitchens.

  I beheld a bustling madhouse of activity: hurrying slave girls, shouting cooks, blazing fires, smoking ovens, turning roasts, squawking chickens, quacking ducks, thudding cleavers and the most delightful mix of aromas I had ever smelled in my short life.

  Shouting above the din was the head chef, a fat Moslem wearing a blood-smeared apron and an enormous turban.

  Standing near him at a long block-like table, commanding his own small army of Turkish cooks, was a squat bearded man of Italian appearance wearing a small crucifix around his neck: Brunello of Borgia.

  ‘Why did the Sultan feel the need to bring a European chef to Constantinople?’ I had quite enjoyed the local fare. ‘When one travels, shouldn’t one taste the unfamiliar local dishes on offer?’

  ‘Yes, I agree, one should, but the bellies of old men are not as accommodating of new foods as are the stomachs of the young,’ Mr Ascham said with a gentle smile. ‘It is not uncommon for visitors to these lands to fall terribly ill after eating the local spices and meats. The Sultan is most wise to provide an alternative for his esteemed guests.’

  Amid all the mayhem, Brunello saw Michelangelo and he quickly wiped his hands on his apron and hurried over to us.

  He was joined by a woman as wide as she was tall, and a gangly boy of about fifteen.

  ‘Signor Buonarroti,’ Brunello bowed, ‘welcome to my kitchen. It is an honour.’

  ‘Brunello,’ Michelangelo said, ‘the honour is mine. You are an artist yourself. The only difference between us is that your art is literally consumed by its audience and so sadly does not remain afterward for later edification. Its joy is in the moment.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ Brunello said. ‘Signor, my wife, Marianna, and my son, Pietro.’ Michelangelo bowed to Brunello’s family.

  I have to say the way the great artist interacted with his social inferiors had a great effect on me. He would have been well within his station to treat everyone from the cook to the cardinal with disdain and even outright condescension. But he did not. Quite the contrary: he treated the chef’s skinny son with the same gentle courtesy with which I had seen him treat everyone else.

  My father, on the contrary, treated every inferior—from his wife to the noble whose wife he took to his bedchamber—with open contempt. I assumed my father thought this kind of behaviour reinforced his status but upon seeing Michelangelo’s courteous decency to all, I realised that the truly powerful do not need to put their power on display at all times.

  Michelangelo shook the boy’s hand. The boy lowered his head meekly and I wondered if he was shy or just overawed by the great man. I couldn’t tell.

  Michelangelo then introduced my teacher to Brunello and a pleasant but brief conversation was had.

  As they spoke, I noticed that Brunello’s wife wore a rosary around her own neck. Attached to the rosary’s crucifix was a small black ribbon tied in a bow.

  ‘Are there many Christians in Constantinople?’ I asked her politely in Italian.

  When she spoke, her voice was flat, uninterested. ‘Owing to its long history, there are many Jews and Christians in the city as well as Moslems.’

  ‘What does the Moslem Sultan have to say about these rival faiths worshipping in his capital?’ I thought this was a most astute and adult question, but her response was still completely devoid of interest.

  ‘He does not seem to care,’ she answered blandly.

  I was saved from further efforts to engage her when Brunello excused himself, saying that the main course was about to be served. This was also the time at which the players in the tournament would be introduced, so we took our leave from the kitchens and returned to our table out in the courtyard.

  THE PLAYERS

  WE ARRIVED BACK AT our table just as Elsie returned from the other side of the courtyard leading a striking young Persian girl by the hand.

  The girl was an Arab beauty. Perhaps sixteen, she had a tiny waist yet full breasts and high curving hips which she wore tantalisingly exposed between gaps in the gorgeous silver sari that entwined her body. She had a deep olive complexion and the most perfect almond-shaped eyes I had ever seen.

  ‘Bessie, Bessie,’ Elsie said breathlessly. ‘You must meet Zubaida here. She is an acquaintance of the Crown Prince, the Sultan’s firstborn son and heir.’ Elsie threw a look over to the elevated table at which the Sultan ate. A very handsome young Turk sat beside him looking profoundly bored: the Crown Prince.

  Elsie’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘Zubaida says that the prince will be holding an unofficial gathering later tonight in his rooms inside the Harem.’

  The girl, Zubaida, leaned in close. ‘The prince is known for his Dionysian gatherings. There will be music and wine and dancing and ganja and I am told that some of the wrestlers have been invited!’

  She and Elsie tittered excitedly at that news.

  By virtue of my classical education, I knew that Dionysus was the Greek god of wine and winemaking, and also ecstasy and a certain kind of free-spiritedness. But I was unsure what a Dionysian gathering was. I guessed it was a reference to the wine. There was also something else Zubaida had mentioned that I did not understand.

  ‘What is ganja?’ I asked.

  ‘It is the strange weed that many smoke here,’ Elsie said. ‘They say it relaxes the mind and calms the soul, and sometimes gives wondrous visions. Oh, Bessie, we simply must go to this private party!’

  I glanced at Mr Ascham. ‘I don’t know, Elsie. I don’t think Mr Ascham would approve—’

  ‘Oh, goodness gracious me, aren’t you the goody-goody,’ Elsie said quickly and a little nastily. ‘Do you always do only what your teacher approves? You’re starting to sound like Primrose Ponsonby. And there I thought you were old enough to understand . . .’

  ‘I’m old enough—’

  ‘We shall see. Later tonight, when your teacher is asleep, I plan to slip out of our rooms and go to this party. We will see if you are brave enough to join me.’

  I hesitated, uncertain and uncomfortable.

  Zubaida said, ‘The gathering will be held in the prince’s private quarters inside the Harem. Tell the guards at the entrance that you are a privileged friend of the Crown Prince and you will be granted entrance.’

  At that moment, some horns blared and Zubaida hurried away. The official
ceremony was about to begin.

  The official opening ceremony of the All High Sultan’s Invitational Chess Championship of 1546 began with a speech from the Sultan himself, first in Turkish, then in common Greek. In his speech, he welcomed the various champions to his kingdom and wished them well in the tournament.

  Then the Sultan returned to his throne and the Grand Vizier stood and in a loud voice proclaimed: ‘Ladies and gentlemen! It is my pleasure and privilege to introduce to you . . . the players!’

  One by one, the sixteen players were introduced and brought onto the stage.

  There was the talented Spanish monk I had seen earlier, Brother Raul of Seville, playing on behalf of the Papal States. Rumour had it that he had not lost a match in six years.

  Then there was the other Spaniard representing King Charles, Pablo Montoya of Castile. The nephew of the famed chess master Luis Ramirez de Lucena, it was said that Montoya had read his uncle’s book, the Repetición de Amores y Arte de Ajedrez con ci Iuegos de Partido, over a dozen times.

  Maximilian of Vienna represented the Archduke of Austria and the Habsburgs, while a young man named Wilhelm of Königsberg ascended the stage on behalf of the new Protestant duchy of Prussia.

  And, of course, there was our man, Mr Gilbert Giles, who the sadrazam very diplomatically announced to be representing ‘the Christian kingdom of England’. A few other western players were introduced and the crowd clapped politely.

  Then came the eastern players.

  A brutish Wallachian fellow named Dragan of Brasov—the same Dragan the tavern owner in Wallachia had mentioned.

  An Oriental named Lao from the Chin lands at the end of the Silk Road.

  The champion of Muscovy: a grim fellow with a hard wrinkled face and a perpetually downturned mouth. As he ascended the stage, the little prince Ivan clapped loudly and vigorously.

  A handsome Hindu prince from the Moghul Empire named Nasiruddin Akbar. He had deep brown skin and a slight build and was reputed to have played chess since he had been an infant.

  There was an old and gnarled librarian from the House of Wisdom in Baghdad named Talib. He was the oldest player in the tournament but a most respected one. He had long been an aliyat, the title given to the highest rank of players, those who could see a dozen moves ahead in a given game.

  And last of all, there were the local Moslem heroes, two of them.

  The first of these was the palace champion, a handsome young man of royal birth named Zaman. He was a cousin of the Sultan’s and had only recently attained the rank of aliyat, the youngest ever to achieve the title.

  The second was Ibrahim of Constantinople, and when his name was uttered a great roar went up from the kitchen staff watching the announcement ceremony from the wings. Ibrahim was the people’s champion, the winner of a chess tournament that had been held in Constantinople the previous year. He was about the same age as his compatriot, Zaman, perhaps in his mid-twenties, but there the similarities ended. Where Zaman was dashing, well dressed and regal, Ibrahim was emaciated, dirty and hunched; a peasant. He had no formal chess ranking.

  When it was all over, sixteen men stood on the stage facing the assembled crowd, accepting its applause and adulation: men from every corner of the civilised world, representing their kings, their faiths, their nations.

  Over the din, the sadrazam called, ‘Tomorrow morning, a draw will be held to determine the first-round matches! Each match will consist of seven games, the winner being the first player to win four of the seven games. All matches will be played in the Ayasofya with the spectacular chess sets created by the renowned artist Michelangelo Buonarroti. The winner of the tournament will take home one of those chess sets as a trophy for his king. Play well, gentlemen, for your people’s pride depends on you! Ladies and gentlemen, honour the champions, and may the best man win!’

  The crowd’s applause was deafening.

  As the cheering reached its height, I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Elsie. Her new friend Zubaida had returned and was at her side.

  ‘Bessie!’ Elsie said. ‘Come on! Zubaida says there are fireworks to be set off shortly above the Fourth Courtyard! Let’s sneak out there and get a good spot.’

  My teacher heard this exchange and at my beseeching look said, ‘Oh, go on.’

  We scurried away from the banquet area, heading for the rearmost courtyard. We dashed through the lattice-walled arcade that separated the Third Courtyard from the Fourth and slipped through one of its ornate gates and beheld the rear courtyard: some stairs led down to a broad lawn overlooking the Bosphorus. A striking oblong reflecting pool lay at the base of the stairs and off to the right stood a lone white building (which I would later learn was the Catholic embassy).

  All of a sudden, with a shrill whistling noise, the first firework rocketed into the sky, fired from a position atop the latticed arcade. It burst in a dazzling star-like shape and we heard the crowd in the other courtyard ooh and ahh with delight. This, it appeared, was the signal to bring all the guests into the Fourth Courtyard for the fireworks show, for at that moment some ushers pushed three other gates open.

  And at that exact moment, I saw something in the shallow pool and with a start, I caught my breath—

  Suddenly there came shouts.

  They were followed by a rush of movement at the gate behind us. A phalanx of palace guards rushed to the gate. More guards dashed toward our position on the stairs, yelling, ‘Get back! Get back!’ before pushing us through the gate, back into the Third Courtyard and slamming the latticed doors shut behind us.

  But my eyes had already glimpsed the dreadful image that the guards had not wished anyone to see.

  By the dying light of that first firework, I had seen the hideous corpse of a man—enormously fat, naked and bearing many stab wounds—lying motionless beneath the surface of the shallow reflecting pool at the base of the stairs.

  Even in that brief instant, I could tell who it was.

  With its broad face, many chins, its distinctive black hair with silver tips above the ears and its bloated obese belly, the corpse was that of the visiting cardinal from Rome, none other than the Pope’s brother, Cardinal Farnese.

  And even when seen through the rippling water of the shallow pool, I could see that the lower half of Farnese’s face had been monstrously mutilated, the skin wrenched away so as to expose the flesh under his cheeks, the white curve of his jawbone and every single one of his teeth.

  BISHOP

  IN THE EARLIEST FORMS of chess, the piece that we know as the bishop was actually an elephant.

  It was only when chess swept across Europe between the 10th and 12th centuries that the elephants became men of faith, reflecting the powerful role played by the Catholic Church in medieval politics.

  As a chess piece, the bishop is unique: it can only move diagonally and is thus restricted to squares of a single colour. Some have suggested this reflects the wiles of medieval churchmen who, lacking military power, could only ever act circuitously, never directly.

  Interestingly, in France, the elephant piece was transformed into le fou, the jester or the fool.

  From: Chess in the Middle Ages,

  Tel Jackson (W.M. Lawry & Co., London, 1992)

  I have no desire to make windows into men’s souls.

  – QUEEN ELIZABETH I

  THE HOURS AFTER THE BANQUET

  ELSIE, ZUBAIDA AND I returned to the Third Courtyard, silent and stunned.

  ‘You’re back?’ Mr Ascham remarked. ‘So soon?’

  I tried to answer him but found myself unable to speak.

  I was in a state of considerable dismay. It was not so much the sight of the dead body—I had seen hangings and beheadings on numerous occasions in England—but rather the cruel display of it.

  The hideous image of the cardinal’s submerged and spread-eagled corpse—and the grotesque skinning of the lower half of his face—was seared into my mind’s eye. Clearly, the killer had wanted the Sultan’s guests to see his grim hand
iwork, but the palace guards had acted quickly and it seemed that only Elsie, Zubaida and I had been witness to the foul sight.

  At last, I found my tongue. ‘Sir . . . I . . . I mean, we . . . we saw—’

  A loud bang made me jump, startled. More fireworks were launched from other places around our courtyard, lighting up the sky and making further conversation impossible. The banquet crowd, unaware that their vantage point should be any different, clapped in delight at the spectacle.

  As the rockets exploded and the crowd clapped, I glanced at the Sultan’s stage and saw a guard appear there and whisper in the ear of the Grand Vizier who—after a brief look of shock—whispered in the ear of the Sultan.

  The Sultan cocked his head ever so slightly before resuming his happy observation of the fireworks display, giving away nothing.

  Soon after, he left the stage, and with the departure of the sovereign, the banquet ended and gradually the Third Courtyard cleared as all the guests retired to their rooms for the night, greatly impressed by the dinner, the entertainment and the fireworks the Sultan had put on.

  We returned to our quarters in the south pavilion. Mr Giles and Mr Ascham talked animatedly while I walked behind in silence. When we arrived at our lodgings, Mr Giles retired to his room while Elsie disappeared into the little room we shared.

  Still troubled, I stopped my teacher as he made for his room.

  ‘Sir, a moment?’ I said softly.

  ‘Yes, Bess—’ He cut himself off. ‘By God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I saw . . . I mean, Elsie and I . . . we saw something, in the Fourth Courtyard, something horrible—’

  ‘What did you see?’

  I swallowed deeply. ‘We saw—’

  ‘Make way for the Sultan!’ a voice boomed from the hallway outside our rooms before the vestibule door was thrown open and four palace guards rushed inside. Striding in after them were, first, the Grand Vizier, and then Sultan Suleiman himself.