The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  It was still light when I dropped into my bed and quickly fell asleep.

  I awoke later to find the world around me dark, the palace quiet and Elsie’s bed once again empty. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

  A shuffling noise woke me. I opened my eyes to see Elsie treading softly across the room toward her bed. The first purple rays of dawn were creeping through the window shades.

  ‘Elsie!’ I whispered. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Oh, just to another delicious gathering with the Crown Prince and his friends,’ she said in a hushed but most excited voice. ‘This time it was in one of the ancient crypts underneath the Hagia Sophia, one that must have been built when the great mosque was a Christian church. Zubaida had learned that a gathering was taking place there this evening and bid me join her.’

  She leapt to my side and, unbidden, launched into a description of her evening.

  ‘When I arrived at the rear entrance to the Hagia with Zubaida, we were each handed a mask and instructed to disrobe. Can you believe it, Bessie, masks and nakedness! How exciting! We then descended some stairs and entered the crypt. Normally, it would have been the most frightening and ghoulish place but the prince’s servants had decorated it with hundreds of candles that illuminated the old stone chamber in a rich warm glow.

  ‘Scattered around the crypt were perhaps two dozen young men and girls—including Crown Prince Selim himself—all of them naked but for their flimsy masks. Many sipped wine from gold goblets while others casually pleasured each other on the stone sarcophagi arrayed around the place, careless of any offence this may have caused the dead.

  ‘I felt a thrill: congress is a delight in itself, but congress in illicit places has an extra excitement to it. I shouldn’t tell you, Bessie, but I once allowed Mr Trelawney, the gardener at Hatfield, to take me in his workshed while his wife tilled the vegetable garden not twenty paces away.’

  ‘Elsie!’

  ‘Trust me, Bessie, a man will take it whenever he can get it, and, truly, the more risky the location, the greater the thrill—riding the gardener while looking out at his wife heightened my pleasure considerably.’

  I could not speak. I had thought Mr Trelawney to be a decent and loyal husband. He went to church every Sunday.

  Elsie went on. ‘Upon entering the crypt, I eyed the Crown Prince. He lounged on a marble coffin wearing a gold half-mask, drinking wine and conversing with one of his male friends while a slave girl stood behind him massaging his shoulders.

  ‘Zubaida said, “See that man Selim is talking to? He is Rahman, the prince’s closest friend since childhood. If you want to snare the prince, you must first impress Rahman.”

  ‘“I see,” I replied, striding around the crypt, ostensibly gazing at the bodies around me but in reality assessing this Rahman. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with long black hair that flopped down over his bronze half-faced mask.

  ‘I made three circuits of the crypt, sidling past Rahman and the prince each time, swivelling my naked hips as I went by. They noticed.

  ‘A short time later, leaning against a stone coffin, I threw a nod at Rahman, which brought him over to me. He arrived before me and said in Greek, “Good evening, I understand that you are a rose from England. I am Rahman—”

  ‘I pressed my finger gently to his lips, silencing him. Then I took him by the hand and led him into a side-crypt. Without uttering a single word, I sat him down on a stone seat and mounted him. Then I rode him, gently and sensually, until with the rhythm of my hips I brought him to a gasping climax.’

  ‘Goodness, Elsie . . .’ I said. ‘How could you be so forward? Would a man really like that?’

  Elsie smiled knowingly. ‘Believe me, they like it, Bessie. You’ll learn. Once Rahman had caught his breath, I said most demurely, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Rahman. My name is Elsie and I do indeed hail from England.”

  ‘After that, we conversed most pleasantly for a short while before he returned to the prince’s side and engaged Selim in a conversation which included many glances in my direction.

  ‘I just nodded to them and the prince nodded back.’ Elsie shivered, giggling. ‘Oh, Bessie, I am getting closer to the prince.’

  ‘Elsie, what exactly do you hope to achieve by coupling with the Crown Prince?’

  ‘Bessie, you silly, silly girl! What do you think? But of course, you do not think of these things because you were born a princess. I was not so born. The only way I can become a princess is by seducing a prince, and the only way I can become a queen is by seducing and marrying a Crown Prince. What better way to win one than by satisfying his manly needs?’

  I suddenly felt very young. I did not like being called a silly, silly girl.

  But then I thought of my father’s long list of conquests. He must have bedded over two hundred women in his life and he certainly hadn’t intended to marry all of them. There was only one exception to this rule: my mother, Anne Boleyn. A most confident and prepossessing lady—some said devious—she had not succumbed to his charms until she was absolutely sure he would marry her. But even that had not saved her. Once they had been wed and she had treacherously given him a daughter, me, his wandering eye had found other willing girls and his interest in her waned till the day he had her head cut off.

  ‘Be careful, Elsie,’ I said, ‘the Crown Prince cannot marry every girl he plucks and it sounds to me like he and his friends have plucked many.’

  Elsie sighed. ‘That’s easy for you to say, Bessie. But just think, if I were to marry Selim and become his queen and you were to become Queen of England, we would be queens together! What wonderful parties we could hold at our courts!’

  ‘Elsie,’ I said, ‘I have one brother and an elder sister who both precede me in the line of succession. By the sound of it, you are currently closer to sitting on a throne than I am.’

  We talked a little more but soon Elsie, exhausted from her nocturnal adventures, nodded off. By this time, dawn had come fully and sounds could be heard from the other rooms of our lodgings.

  The second day of the tournament was about to start.

  A DISCUSSION AMONG TITANS

  WE ARRIVED AT THE Hagia Sophia later that morning to find two chess stages erected before the royal stage and the eager masses crowding around them both. The Sultan sat up on his throne, equidistant from the two boards, able to watch whichever match took his fancy.

  The first two matches to be played were the remaining two from the top half of the draw: Ali Hassan Rama of Medina versus Pablo Montoya of Castile; and Eduardo of Syracuse versus Brother Raul of the Papal States.

  At one point during those two matches, my teacher went over to sit with Ignatius of Loyola. He recounted to me later the conversation they had:

  ‘Signor Ignatius, we have not met but my name is Ascham, from—’

  ‘Please, I know who you are, Mr Ascham. It is a privilege. I am told by our mutual friend Michelangelo that you are a man after my own heart: a lover of learning and teaching.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ my teacher replied. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some brief questions.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘On the night of the opening banquet, just before the main meal, did you engage Cardinal Cardoza in a conversation?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘He was leaving the courtyard, was he not?’

  ‘He was. He was returning to his embassy.’

  ‘Was it a lengthy discussion?’

  ‘Yes. And a passionate one, too. It was about the selling of indulgences by the Pope and his cardinals to the wealthy. I find it outrageous. Cardinal Cardoza does not.’

  ‘I see. May I also ask if you are staying at Cardinal Cardoza’s embassy while you are in attendance at this tournament?’

  ‘No!’ the Jesuit retorted sharply. ‘I most certainly am not. The selling of indulgences is not the only Church practice the cardinal and I disagree on. I am staying in more humble lodgings in the city, on my own.
’

  ‘What of your player? Brother Raul?’

  ‘He is staying with the cardinal, against my advice,’ the Jesuit said darkly.

  They spoke briefly of other matters, but then Brother Raul’s match reached a critical juncture and my teacher politely took his leave so that Ignatius could watch the match with his full attention.

  In the end, the two matches were stirring contests that went to seven and six games respectively, with both the Spanish players winning. The second round would thus be most interesting: Spaniard would face Spaniard with one representing the Holy Roman Emperor, King Charles, and the other God himself.

  I was very excited about the next session—the middle session of the day—for it would see the first appearance of our man, Mr Gilbert Giles. Earlier that morning, he had sat with Mr Ascham in our rooms discussing potential strategies. I watched, enthralled.

  ‘So, Giles, what do you know of this Talib?’

  ‘Only that he has been playing chess for nearly sixty years,’ Mr Giles said, ‘and that his prodigious memory of past contests is famous. His mind is said to be a repository of chess matches that he can call upon at will.’

  ‘A powerful strength,’ Mr Ascham said.

  ‘But also, I think, a potential weakness,’ Mr Giles said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Talib has written much on the subject of chess. He loudly praises the classical strategies—openings, pawn formations, attacks—while scorning newer methods of play. Talib is trapped in the old ways. If I use some of the more unusual recent techniques, I think I might be able to unsettle him, bamboozle him.’

  I said, ‘Play the man, not the board.’

  ‘Correct.’ Mr Giles grinned as he then said, ‘You know, Bess, I think we should call this new strategy the “Ascham Gambit” since it involves using unorthodox techniques to achieve one’s goal.’

  Mr Ascham cracked a rare smile, not taking the bait. ‘Why, thank you, Giles. I am honoured.’

  They both laughed and for a brief moment, I was actually happy. In that strange city, under the constant shadow of our grim investigation, I enjoyed seeing two good friends smiling.

  Mr Ascham became his serious self once again. ‘Be watchful for any accelerating or delaying tactics he might employ. I hear he is wily.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Good point . . .’

  ‘What do you mean, accelerating or delaying tactics?’ I asked.

  My teacher said, ‘Some chess players are known to subtly control the pace of a game through certain stratagems: sometimes they move quickly, immediately after you have moved, rushing you, making you feel as if they know every move you can make before you do. Others play excessively slowly, even when they only have one or two possible moves, to the point where you want to reach over and move the damn piece for them. Their goal is to frustrate you, put you off your game.’

  ‘Because if you are annoyed,’ Mr Giles said, ‘then you are not thinking about the game at hand. An angry mind does not play good chess.’

  ‘An angry mind does not do anything well,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘Many a king has lost his kingdom because of decisions made in anger. We’re lucky this is only chess.’

  And so it was that just before noon that day Mr Giles faced off against the hunched and gnarled figure of Talib of Baghdad, while on the other stage the great unshaven brute, Dragan of Wallachia, played Marko of Venezia.

  The other match was over long before Mr Giles’s—the dirty Wallachian made short work of the Venetian. Whenever he took one of his opponent’s pieces, Dragan would shout something in his Slavic tongue. Word spread quickly that he was saying: ‘Take that and fuck your mother!’

  The spectators on the royal stage and in the upper galleries of the hall exchanged embarrassed glances at his exclamations, but the enormous crowd of regular citizens cheered with delight whenever he spat the crude phrase.

  Dragan, it should also be said, happily drank mugs of mead while he played, belching loudly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and at one point, stomping out of the hall to urinate in an alley outside, in full view of the crowd.

  Mr Giles had a far tougher time of it against the little librarian from the House of Wisdom in Baghdad. Talib was indeed a seasoned and wily player who set many traps and oftentimes would groan sadly after a move—only to leap forward three moves later and pounce on one of Mr Giles’s pieces, revealing his groan to have been but a ruse.

  He also, I noticed, engaged in the exact delaying tactics my teacher and Mr Giles had discussed that morning. He took an excessively long time to make even the simplest move, but Mr Giles just sat back in his chair, as if enjoying the extra time this gave him to admire the details of the Hagia Sophia’s nave.

  Their match was poised at two games apiece when Dragan finished off his Venetian opponent (‘Take that and fuck your mother twice!’). The final score was four games to nil in Dragan’s favour. The spectators around that table applauded appreciatively before turning their attention to the other playing stage.

  As Mr Giles’s match became the centre of attention in the vast hall, a familiar white-bearded figure appeared beside my teacher: Michelangelo.

  ‘Roger,’ he said. ‘Your man plays well. He drew a difficult opponent in the first round.’

  ‘He most certainly did,’ my teacher replied. ‘Unlike others in the draw.’

  Michelangelo didn’t seem to notice the barb. He said, ‘During the afternoon session, I will be venturing into the city for lunch with Ignatius. Would you like to join us?’

  My teacher turned in his seat. ‘Why, that would be splendid! But—’ He shot a concerned look at me.

  Michelangelo saw it. ‘Bring the young princess, too. I like the sharpness of her eyes and, who knows’—he winked at me—‘she might even learn something.’

  They arranged to meet in the square outside the Hagia Sophia at the conclusion of Mr Giles’s match.

  As it turned out, that did not take very long: in the next two games, Mr Giles employed some very unorthodox tactics (including a daring sacrifice of one of his knights after it went on a bloody rampage through Talib’s carefully arranged pawns) which threw Talib completely. He blinked excessively and frowned at the pieces as if he were looking at a three-eyed man and not a chessboard. Mr Giles’s tactic had rattled him and it caused Talib to commit some small but fatal errors and Mr Giles pounced, closing out the match, winning it four games to two.

  It was now early in the afternoon and while the royal stage cleared for the luncheon intermission, none of the citizens dared move from their places: their hero, Ibrahim of Constantinople, would be playing in the final session of the day and they did not want to lose their spots.

  Mr Giles joined us on the royal stage. I noticed perspiration on his forehead and his gaze seemed to be fixed at a length of about two feet—the distance between his chair and the chessboard. The intensity of the match had taken a physical toll on him and I recalled my argument with my teacher about chess not being a sport unless one perspired while playing it. Clearly, I had been wrong.

  ‘Nicely done, Giles,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘A fine effort in forward planning.’

  Mr Giles nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Goodness, I need a rest.’

  He retired to our quarters to take a nap, accompanied by Elsie who, in desperate need of sleep herself, said she would do the same.

  As for Mr Ascham and me, we ventured out into the mighty crowd massed on the wide plaza outside the main entrance to the Hagia Sophia, where we found Michelangelo and Ignatius waiting for us.

  That afternoon, while the last two matches of the first round were played—the Moghul prince Nasiruddin versus Lao from the Orient, and Ibrahim of Constantinople versus Wilhelm of Königsberg—my teacher and I chatted and discoursed with two of the most celebrated minds of the age.

  And what a discussion it was!

  We dined at a small establishment on a hill about half a mile from the palace. With Constantinople spread out before us in the dusty afternoon light—its
streets and minarets veiled in the perpetual haze, the great dome of the Hagia Sophia looming behind us—my dining companions talked about all manner of diverse and interesting things.

  Their conversation ranged from a detailed examination of the sensational assertions made by the astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus in his recent publication, De Revolutionibus orbium coelestium, to fabulous stories of galleons overflowing with silver returning from the New World to Spain . . . and the privateers who had taken to plundering them; and of course, to matters of religion, including Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses and the future of a bejewelled Catholic papacy in the face of this grassroots reform movement and, naturally, the exotic Moslem faith that surrounded us in Constantinople.

  ‘Islam is a most beautiful religion but sometimes it saddens me,’ Michelangelo said as a veiled Moslem woman passed us by, walking obediently behind her husband, two young girls skipping happily beside her. ‘See that veiled woman. Islam does not in any way command that she be veiled. And see her little girls, so delightful and gay: in a few years, their smiling faces will be hidden behind gauze veils, too, and yet that need not be so. For in early Islam, it was only the Prophet’s wives who had to be veiled, not all women.’

  ‘Then how did it come to be that all Moslem women now do so?’ I asked.

  ‘Interestingly, it is more about the nature of fashion than faith,’ the great artist said. ‘Let me ask you this: your father, Henry, the King of England. He is a handsome man?’

  ‘He is.’ In his youth, my father had been positively dashing, a sportsman-king. As he aged now, he grew wider in the paunch, but I was not going to admit that.

  ‘And a fashionable fellow?’