The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  The Sultan thought about this for a moment. ‘Fine. Do so and continue your investigation.’

  The Sultan stepped aside, allowing us to leave. He indicated the six kitchen hands still in the slaughter room. ‘Have you spoken to these six?’

  ‘I have,’ Mr Ascham said.

  ‘Have you any further need of them?’

  ‘No. They are innocent. They just saw the bodies. They know nothing of value.’

  The Sultan escorted us out of the slaughter room, turning to his chief guardsman as he did so and saying a few sharp words in Turkish.

  I slowed my stride and turned to look back but Mr Ascham gently pressed my shoulder, keeping me moving.

  He was right to do so, for as we walked away from that slaughter room and its door swung shut behind us, the last thing I saw—to my utter horror and disbelief—was the chief guardsman and the other guards drawing their swords.

  THE CARDINAL AND THE WHOREMONGER

  WE EMERGED FROM THE kitchen area to find that it was now mid-afternoon. The Sultan and his entourage left us without another word. They headed off toward the Harem.

  I was in a state of some considerable dismay over the fates of Sasha and the other kitchen staff. ‘Mr Ascham, why did the Sultan order that those poor people be killed?’

  ‘We are in a strange and unholy land, Bess,’ Mr Ascham replied. ‘We should count ourselves lucky we didn’t suffer a similar fate. I imagine it was only your royal blood and my deductive abilities that allowed us to escape that room alive.’

  We were standing in the Second Courtyard. Delegations and players were now milling around under its trees. Zaman’s match was over—he had beaten Maximilian of Vienna four games to nil, a thrashing—and now the privileged crowd was taking in some air before the second match of the day began, that of Vladimir of Muscovy and Mustafa of Cairo.

  ‘But why kill them?’ I said, still appalled. ‘They did nothing but see the dead couple.’

  ‘The most dangerous thing in any palace is a rumour,’ my teacher said. ‘They would have told others who would have told others still. Word is already spreading about the death of Cardinal Farnese. Whispers of more deaths cannot be tolerated. It would reflect poorly on the Sultan: he would be seen to have lost control of his own palace. Your father has executed dukes for no less a reason and should you ever become queen, you, too, will execute people for the dangerous things they say.’

  ‘I most certainly will not!’

  My teacher sighed sadly. ‘Yes. You will.’ He stood straighter, as if reacquiring his bearings. ‘Now, though, we have inquiries to make. For one thing I would like to find Brunello’s surviving son, Pietro—he delivered meals for his father and may be able to help us with our investigation. I am also intrigued by the visits to the kitchen of the Austrian player, Maximilian. Most of all, however, I would very much like to know why so pious a man as Brunello should forget his place and shout at a cardinal of the Church to which he was devoted. We must speak with Cardinal Cardoza again. Why, there he is—’

  The cardinal was standing on the opposite side of the wide courtyard, talking with a small, bearded Persian. The Persian was a tiny runt of a man. He wore a shiny maroon outfit with gaudy gold shoulder braids. It was an outfit that was formal but at the same time a little too flamboyant and garish. The little Persian was gesticulating animatedly, jabbing a finger angrily at the cardinal’s face. At one point, the Persian moved quite close to the cardinal and the cardinal’s manservant interceded and physically pushed the smaller man back a step.

  Mr Ascham said, ‘It would appear that it was not only Brunello who was angry with the cardinal. Latif, who is that little fellow arguing with Cardinal Cardoza?’

  ‘That is Afridi, a local whoremonger and owner of several brothels. His largest brothel is located just beyond the Ayasofya.’

  Mr Ascham watched the exchange between the short Persian and the burly cardinal with great interest. It ended with the brightly dressed whoremonger turning on his heel, waving a hand dismissively, and storming away from Cardinal Cardoza.

  Mr Ascham said, ‘The whoremonger seems quite upset. Historically speaking, it is usually the holy man who is angry at the one who sells sins of the flesh.’ He watched Afridi leave the courtyard, heading out of the palace.

  ‘Do you still wish to speak with the cardinal?’ Latif asked.

  Mr Ascham was still watching the departing whoremonger.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I wish to speak with that whore-monger first. I would like to know what angers him so.’

  And so, led by Latif, we left the palace grounds and ventured into the bustling market district that surrounded the man-made mountain that was the Hagia Sophia.

  People were everywhere: beggars, poultry sellers, spice merchants, men smoking pipes or sipping the rich dark tea that the Turks drink, women buying chickens. One bet-taker had drawn in chalk on a wall a gigantic replica of the tournament draw and assigned every player odds on his chances of winning the tournament. Zaman’s name had already been shifted into the second-round column. The crowd of gamblers seeking to wager on the matches was twenty deep. There were at least ten other bet-takers doing similar business in the square outside the Hagia Sophia.

  Entering a wide street beyond the square, we came to a most peculiar building: the lower half appeared to be made of ancient Roman marble while the upper half was constructed of more recent masonry.

  ‘This is Afridi’s establishment,’ Latif said.

  ‘A profitable business?’ my teacher asked.

  ‘Very. Afridi owns several whorehouses in the city but this is the biggest of them. He is very successful.’

  Just then, two men emerged from the whorehouse, one of whom I recognised. He was the big swarthy Wallachian player, Dragan.

  Dragan had a broad grin on his face and he staggered slightly, drunk. ‘That’s better!’ he roared in Greek. ‘I’ve been feeling poorly ever since I arrived in this dungheap of a city. A good fuck after lunch is most cleansing for the mind!’

  The Wallachian spotted us, nodded sloppily at my teacher. ‘Ah, you are one of the Englishmen, are you not? I was led to believe that the English were too prudish for whoring, but you surprise me! Good for you! Or are you showing your girl there how a woman can earn a decent living simply by spreading her legs?’

  My teacher said nothing.

  Dragan staggered off, calling, ‘Send her to my rooms tonight and I’ll break her in!’

  My teacher just watched them go with a most sour look on his face. When they disappeared around a corner, he said quietly to me, ‘From this moment on, stay close to me both inside and outside the palace.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Bess, fortify your mind. What you are about to see may not be pleasant.’

  We went inside the brothel.

  Upon entering it, the unusual construction of the whorehouse revealed its origins: the building had actually once been a Roman bath. Afridi had merely kept its ancient base and added the upper half.

  The main room was a wide high-ceilinged space, the centrepiece of which was a huge steaming bath. Islands of marble were scattered around it, while ten open-ended booths, all filled with cushions, lined the walls, encircling the central pool.

  Nude women carried food and drinks on trays, delivering them to customers in the booths. Female masseuses wearing only neck chains massaged customers on marble slabs, occasionally interrupting their ministrations to mount their customers or pleasure them in other ways.

  In nearly every booth, fornication was taking place. Most of the booths were open for all to see, while a small number of them had their curtains closed. Grunts and groans could be heard from every corner, but unlike Elsie’s description of her sensuous night in the Harem, there was nothing sensuous about the noises here. They were the sounds of men getting their money’s worth.

  I had heard about prostitutes and, indeed, brothels before (one only had to read the Bible), but I was not prepared for the cold busines
slike nature of it all: the reduction of an intimate act of love to a mere act of commerce.

  And then I saw the children.

  They were the same age as me, thirteen or thereabouts, young boys and girls, but they strolled about the bath-house with their faces painted like adults, in various degrees of undress, bearing drinks, grapes or smoking pipes.

  I felt sick.

  Standing beside me, Mr Ascham viewed the liaisons around us with unconcealed disgust. He absently put a protective hand on my shoulder.

  At that moment we spotted the diminutive whoremonger, Afridi, still dressed in his gaudy maroon-and-gold attire. He was speaking to a pair of Romany gypsies, a man and an old crone, who led two dirty country children by their hands. As we watched, Afridi gave the gypsies some coins and the children were handed over to him. The gypsies left.

  This, I realised with horror, was what happened to children who were taken by gypsies. They ended up in establishments like this.

  Latif went over to Afridi and after a brief exchange brought the whoremonger to us. The eunuch made the introductions for everyone’s convenience in common Greek. He also informed Afridi that my teacher asked his questions at the command of the Sultan himself.

  ‘I saw you arguing with Cardinal Cardoza a short time ago,’ Mr Ascham said directly. ‘What was the cause of your disagreement?’

  ‘That bastard is stealing my business, that’s what it was about,’ the Persian spat. ‘Thieving sodomite! Until he came to Constantinople, visiting clergymen from Rome were my best customers!’

  ‘How could he be stealing your business? He is a cardinal of Rome.’

  ‘Look around you, fool! Nearly all of the men here are visitors for the tournament. Not just players—bah, there are only sixteen of them—but their masters, their attendants, their servants. An event like this is tremendous for business! And yet the entire visiting delegation from Rome—twelve men of God, twelve gloriously lusty men of the cloth—remain each night in the cardinal’s quarters, serviced by the cardinal’s own collection of boys.’

  ‘The cardinal keeps . . . boys?’

  ‘Lads he finds on the streets. Lads he finds himself. Pays them with silver or food. And he knows that I will deliver as many boys as he needs. All the other ambassadors use my women for their gatherings in the palace. But not the cardinal, oh no. And my boys are skilled, you know. They know how to—’

  My teacher winced as he held up a hand, stopping Afridi from elaborating. ‘I think I understand,’ Mr Ascham said, eyeing the whoremonger with considerable distaste. ‘So what does Cardinal Cardoza do in his quarters exactly?’

  ‘He holds private gatherings. Oh, those priests and their appetites. That’s why I’m so angry. If it weren’t for Cardoza, those priests would be here, every day and night, fucking like queer rabbits and paying me for the privilege!’

  ‘Good God . . .’ my teacher breathed.

  ‘I think God stopped watching long ago,’ Afridi said. ‘This may not happen in England, but it goes on in half the Church’s embassies in eastern Europe. The local cardinal provides—how to put this—lodging and services for any visiting priest. If you are a man who likes other men, then the Church is the organisation for you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s just wrong, I tell you! You don’t see me selling places in heaven to their customers! The Church should not barge into other men’s trades. Its business is selling salvation. It has no business elbowing in on mine.’

  As Afridi continued his ranting and they conversed some more, I ventured away from my teacher’s side, drawn to a large gold-painted door. It literally sparkled with golden dust. It was ajar. Curious, I pushed it open.

  I saw an elaborately decorated bedchamber with a huge four-poster bed draped in the finest red satin sheets. The bed was currently empty, but a pair of padded ropes dangled from the bedhead. A sign above the bed read in Arabic:

  I peered at the symbols closely. I was getting better at understanding the local script and I managed to recognise one set of symbols: They were Arabic-Turkish for ‘Crown Prince’.

  A rough hand came down on my shoulder. An unshaven man of Egyptian appearance stood over me. ‘I’ll take this one!’ he called out to Afridi in Greek.

  ‘You most certainly will not.’ My teacher hurried to my side. ‘This girl does not work here. Get away from her.’

  The Egyptian skulked off. Mr Ascham watched him go. Then he glanced into the room beyond the golden door to see what had drawn me to it, before saying, ‘Let’s go, Bess. We’re finished here.’

  As we strode out the main doors, Afridi called after us, ‘Hey, Englishman! While you are here, you want a woman? Since you’re visiting on behalf of the Sultan, I will give you a woman for no charge!’

  Mr Ascham said nothing as we hastened out of there.

  We left Afridi’s establishment and stepped back into the sunshine.

  I was very pleased to be out of there. I was actually quite unnerved by the experience: the dark brothel was a place where a young girl like me could enter by accident and never leave. It was good to be back out in the light of day, in the freedom of the streets of Constantinople.

  My teacher walked with a grim, determined look on his face, heading back toward the Hagia Sophia and the palace.

  ‘Did you learn anything in there?’ I asked. While I was a little disturbed by Afridi’s descriptions of the indiscretions of the visiting priests, I had not derived much of relevance to our investigation from his remarks.

  ‘Too many things,’ he replied. ‘Our world advances so quickly yet some men will always be slaves to their basest desires. Sometimes I think we are merely animals who wear clothes. I regret that you had to see that. Are you all right?’

  I winced. ‘I didn’t like seeing the children. I did not know such things happened.’

  Mr Ascham nodded. ‘While I regret that you saw what you did, I must say I am not sorry you saw it. Bess, many would say that you should never see such awful things, that seeing them will offend your delicate sensibilities. But I do not think so.’

  ‘Even when it is painful to see them?’ I asked.

  ‘Precisely because it is painful. A potential future ruler like you should see the grim underbelly of the world, foul places like the one you just witnessed, for if you didn’t, you would sincerely believe that all folk enjoy the same privileged life as you when in reality they do not. We live in a world where women sell their bodies to men and where children are kidnapped in the countryside and sold into slavery in brothels in the cities. You should know that these things occur.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just tell me about them? Then I could know of them without having to see them.’

  ‘Not this time. There is no better lesson than seeing something with your own eyes.’

  We had arrived back at the Hagia Sophia. The enormous throng of people still crowded around the mighty cathedral.

  I said, ‘So what is your plan now?’

  ‘From what I have seen and heard so far,’ Mr Ascham said, ‘I am increasingly intrigued by Cardinal Cardoza and his embassy. That is where Cardinal Farnese was poisoned by a meal that came from Brunello’s kitchen. And the now-dead Brunello argued with Cardoza, who feuds with the whoremonger, Afridi. And now we hear from Afridi of most unholy gatherings that take place there at night. My plan, then, is to follow my own advice and see this embassy with my own eyes. I intend to observe the cardinal’s embassy under the cover of darkness, perhaps as soon as tonight, and see what goes on there.’

  ANOTHER NIGHT AT THE PALACE

  WE RETURNED TO THE Hagia Sophia in time to see the final stages of the second match of the tournament: Vladimir of Muscovy versus Mustafa of Cairo. Like the first match, it was a rather one-sided contest.

  The burly Muscovite won the match by four games to nil and when he mated the Egyptian in the fourth game, the young prince Ivan leapt up from his chair on the royal stage and punched the air with a cry of, ‘Good show, Vlad! Good show!’


  A wooden placard bearing Vladimir’s name was placed in the second column of the draw. The Muscovite would face Zaman in the next round and all knew that it would be a fine match.

  The sun set on Constantinople and the delighted crowd dispersed from the Hagia Sophia. As the distinguished guests staying at the palace filed out of the great cathedral and back through the palace gates, Mr Ascham held me aside so that they could pass us by.

  ‘What are we—’ I began, but then I realised.

  He was looking at their shoes, searching for a wooden-soled left sandal with a nick in it. But he saw no such shoe among the many feet that went by.

  The next day offered an abundance of chess: the remaining six matches of the first round would be played. To accommodate this, we’d been told, the single central playing stage would be converted into two playing stages.

  Given the big day to follow, no formal dinner was held that evening and most delegations took supper in their rooms.

  My teacher’s plan to furtively observe the cardinal’s quarters that night was also thwarted when he learned that, since Rome’s own player was playing the next day, Cardinal Cardoza had ordered all his guests to retire early that night, so as not to disturb Brother Raul.

  ‘The cardinal is, however, scheduled to host a reception for the Sultan in the Church’s embassy tomorrow evening,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘I might try to see what happens there after that.’

  I myself was glad for the early night. The events in the slaughter room and the visit to the brothel had shaken me. I wasn’t sure what to make of them. On the one hand, I most certainly didn’t like seeing such things. But then, on the other, I didn’t want to be a naïve king’s daughter who knew nothing of the real world. That world might be unpleasant, it might even be dangerous, but it was real, and I found myself wanting to know about it, no matter how terrible its secrets might be. Having said that, after staying out so late the previous night, I was tired and another evening of grim investigation was not something I desired greatly, so I was happy for the reprieve.