The Tournament

by Matthew Reilly

  Mr Ascham’s face darkened.

  ‘Wait a moment, Bess. Are you saying that Elsie had relations with the Crown Prince himself?’

  My face reddened. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Please, tell me. It might be important.’

  ‘She did. She tried for several nights to attract his attention and on the final occasion, she ensnared him. Elsie thought pleasuring him might be a good way to impress him and thus become his queen—’

  ‘When did she bed him?’ my teacher asked with an exactness that surprised me.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yes, when? Three nights ago? Two? When?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘It was the night before last. The evening before he invited her to lunch with him in the city. She had flirted with him greatly before then, but it was only on that night that they actually consummated their desire.’

  ‘Did she dine with him in the city on any other occasion? Lunch, dinner?’

  ‘No. This was the first time.’

  ‘So the day after he plucks her, he invites her to the city, and then she disappears. Oh, my God . . .’ my teacher said. ‘Foolish, foolish girl.’

  He started moving quickly. He threw some final objects into his trunk and slammed the lid. ‘Bess, get your things. It’s time for us to leave this accursed city.’

  ‘What about Elsie?’

  ‘I have an idea where she has gone and we shall try to grab her on our way out, if that is indeed possible.’

  ‘If it is possible?’ I said, shocked. ‘Why? What do you think has become of her? Where do you think she is?’

  ‘She has most certainly not become a queen, of that I am certain,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘If she is where I think she is, she is in a whole new world of horror.’

  When the three of us were ready to depart, we moved toward the outer door of our lodgings.

  It was only then that Mr Giles noticed that sometime during the night, someone had slipped an envelope under the door.

  It was a scarlet envelope, just like the one we had brought with us to the tournament.

  ‘It’s addressed to Bess,’ Mr Giles said, surprised.

  He handed it to me. I turned it over in my hands.

  It was indeed addressed to me: ‘For Princess Elizabeth Tudor’. It was also sealed with fine red wax that was imprinted with the circular seal of the Sultan himself.

  ‘You can read it later, Bess,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘It is time for us to leave.’

  And so we departed our lodgings at Topkapi Palace, not in a blaze of pomp and ceremony, but in quiet, almost shameful, anonymity.

  On our way out we stopped by the eunuchs’ quarters, where we found Latif with his bald head heavily bandaged. Mr Ascham wanted to return his ornate bow to him, but the eunuch would have none of it.

  ‘Please, keep it.’ Latif handed Mr Ascham the matching quiver. ‘I owe my life to you and your bright young student here.’ He nodded at me. ‘Keep my bow and its arrows as a gift from me and a reminder of your time here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ my teacher said.

  ‘Oh, and sir,’ Latif said as we made to leave. ‘The Sultan’s guards went down into the cisterns this morning in search of the boy. The other children were long gone, but the guards found Pietro’s body. He had weighed down his pockets with heavy stones and drowned himself.’

  A great sadness came over me. Poor Pietro.

  ‘You guessed he would do this . . .’ I said to my teacher.

  ‘He couldn’t have known the trail of destruction he would set in motion,’ Mr Ascham said. He took my hand and we left the eunuchs’ quarters.

  At the palace gates, Mr Ascham, Mr Giles and I put our trunks on the back of a wagon pulled by a donkey and left the palace for good, farewelled by no-one, not by our host the Sultan, his son the Crown Prince, or even by our friend Michelangelo.

  We were leaving in stealth.

  My teacher looked about us cautiously as we made our way down the wide boulevard that led away from the palace and past the mighty Hagia Sophia, as if searching for assassins behind every corner.

  ‘We will meet the Ponsonbys and our English escorts at the Golden Gate,’ he said, ‘and only then will I feel something akin to safety.’

  We passed the Hagia Sophia. A colossal throng of spectators, larger than any we had seen previously, spilled out from every door of the massive cathedral, all of them trying to get in to see the all-Moslem final between Zaman and Ibrahim.

  Not one of them noticed us passing by.

  I was still very alarmed that we were leaving the palace without Elsie.

  ‘She’s not in the palace,’ Mr Ascham said as he strode through the streets. ‘And if she’s not where I think she is, then we have no hope of finding her in this sprawling city.’

  A few corners later, he turned suddenly and led us down a wide street. To my surprise, it was a street I had seen before.

  It was the boulevard containing the establishment of Afridi, the gaudily dressed whoremonger, the one who had argued with Cardinal Cardoza about stealing his business; the one who owned several whorehouses in Constantinople of which this was the largest.

  We stopped in front of the brothel with its Roman-era lower half and newer upper half.

  ‘Here?’ I asked. ‘What makes you think Elsie is here?’

  ‘Just stay close to me,’ my teacher said. ‘Giles, do you have your sword?’

  Mr Giles revealed his sword beneath his cloak, and it was only then that I saw that Mr Ascham carried Latif’s bow underneath his oilskin coat with an arrow already notched.

  We were going into that place armed.

  An oily bearded Arab greeted us at the streetside door. ‘Good sirs, hello! How are you? How may I help you? We have many girls available right now, as most of the city is out watching the chess match—’

  Mr Ascham just brushed past him, marched inside.

  He strode across the main chamber of the brothel, heading straight for the room with the gold-painted door.

  ‘Hey! Wait there!’ the bearded Arab wailed, but my teacher arrived at the room and threw open its glittering door.

  ‘Oh, Lord . . .’ he said as I caught up with him. ‘Wait, Bess! No! Don’t look . . .’

  But it was too late. I had already caught a glimpse—a fleeting glimpse—of what lay beyond the golden doorway and even though I saw it only for the briefest of moments, it was an image that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

  What I saw sickened me.

  Through the half-opened doorway I glimpsed Elsie: sweet Elsie; a silly girl, yes, reckless, too, but she didn’t deserve this.

  She lay spreadeagled on the gigantic bed in the centre of the elaborately decorated bedchamber, on her back, her hands tied to the bedhead, her feet tied to the footposts but spread wide so that a customer could easily enter her. Her inner thighs were red raw.

  She looked like a battered sexual plaything, a toy for the beastly men of Constantinople to occupy however roughly they liked.

  The sign above her read:

  And suddenly I understood its awful meaning. Of course, my teacher had deciphered the foul phrase long before I had, which was why he had brought us here.

  It was like the royal endorsements displayed by the silk sellers in the Grand Bazaar: ‘As used by the Sultan!’

  Only this was a more sinister endorsement.

  Having grown a little more accustomed to the local script in recent days, I was able to translate the sign above Elsie’s bed:

  AS USED BY THE CROWN PRINCE!

  My teacher hurried inside the bedchamber, closing the door behind him, mercifully cutting off my view. He emerged moments later carrying Elsie in his arms. She gazed at him in a daze. She was alive but she did not have her wits about her; she appeared drunk or drugged.

  ‘Who would do this?’ I asked as he marched past me.

  ‘The Crown Prince,’ my teacher said. ‘The callous Crown Prince. I imagine he finds this humorous, bedding and then discarding a foreign b
eauty. Perhaps he and Afridi are friends; perhaps they have an arrangement. No sooner does he pluck Elsie than he hands her to the whoremonger who sells her at a premium price to other men because of the prince’s endorsement. I wouldn’t be surprised if the prince takes a cut from Afridi.’

  It was as if the mention of his name had summoned him forth: as we strode away from the golden bedchamber, we were confronted by Afridi, dressed in a shiny gold suit today and flanked by two very large bodyguards bearing scimitars. The three of them blocked the exit.

  ‘Just where do you think you are going with my prize girl?’ Afridi asked in a low voice.

  ‘She is not yours to sell,’ Mr Ascham retorted. ‘She is a subject of the King of England.’

  ‘We are not in England. The Crown Prince himself gave this girl to me. She is mine. And she turned over a tidy sum last night. The Crown Prince’s recommendation is very lucrative in my trade. She was my most popular girl. Selim was right: English roses make for fine fucks.’

  ‘You will let us pass,’ my teacher said evenly.

  ‘No.’

  My teacher handed Elsie to me. She slumped over my shoulder, barely able to stand.

  ‘You will let us pass . . . now,’ my teacher said, extracting the bow from his cloak. Beside him, Mr Giles drew his sword.

  Mr Ascham drew his arrow back and aimed it squarely at Afridi’s head. ‘I am a fine shot and you will be dead before your thugs can even take a step toward us.’

  Afridi smiled quickly, stepping aside, raising his hands. ‘Of course, on the other hand, I might be open to some bargaining.’

  ‘No bargains,’ my teacher said as we moved slowly and cautiously around the whoremonger and his thugs. The whole time he kept his arrow trained on Afridi’s nose, while Giles eyed the two thugs.

  We stepped through the arched doorway and onto the street outside that awful establishment, emerging into welcome sunshine.

  Afridi watched us from the door. ‘Leave this city quickly, Englishman. For I shall have my people on your tail within the hour.’

  My teacher paused, as if suddenly struck by a thought.

  He jerked his chin at the whoremonger. ‘I am taking this girl whether you like it or not. But in exchange for you not sending anyone after us, I will offer you some information.’

  ‘What kind of information?’ Afridi asked coolly.

  ‘I imagine that the whoremongers and the gamblers are quite close in this town,’ my teacher said. ‘You have associates who take wagers? Perhaps on the chess match being played today?’

  ‘I do, yes,’ Afridi said warily. ‘I myself have taken many bets.’

  ‘Who do most of the gamblers bet on?’

  ‘The people like Ibrahim but they bet on Zaman. If Zaman wins, I will lose a substantial sum.’

  ‘Zaman will win,’ my teacher said. ‘Of that there is no doubt. The information I offer you is this: during the match, find a way to observe the Sultan’s private worshipping balcony inside the Hagia Sophia. There you will see Zaman’s advantage.’

  Afridi’s eyes narrowed.

  He was a creature of the street and he seemed to realise that the information being offered him now was worthy of his attention.

  ‘Go, Englishman. I may well investigate what you say, and if I find that you have lied to me, I will make sure that you are hunted down like a dog.’

  ‘I accept those terms,’ my teacher said, and with those words, we left.

  By the time we arrived at the outer walls of the city an hour later, the rumours had already overtaken us, for while we had travelled on foot, they had travelled by voice from balcony to balcony, rooftop to rooftop.

  There was great unrest at the Hagia Sophia.

  Zaman had taken an early lead in his match against Ibrahim, but then—so the rumours said—the well-known whoremonger, Afridi, had arrived at the Great Hall and spotted Zaman receiving signals from a group of five men up in the Sultan’s private worshipping balcony. Afridi raised an indignant shout, pointing them out, and accused Zaman of cheating. The crowd started hissing and booing.

  The sadrazam called for calm, but the crowd, angered that the Sultan’s man was cheating against their champion, rose up in anger and demanded that the men on the private balcony be brought down to the floor of the hall.

  The Sultan seemed taken aback. He did not know what to say. The crowd started throwing food and then shoes at Zaman. Some started yelling at the royal stage, calling for justice. The few royal guards in front of the Sultan’s stage drew their weapons and commanded the surging, angry crowd to stay back.

  But it was too late. The mob was unleashed.

  The furious crowd rushed the playing stage.

  A melee ensued and the crowd invaded the stage, overcoming the four guards on it before grabbing Zaman and hurling him off the platform into the roiling mass of people. Punches were thrown and Zaman fell to the ground where he was trampled to death in the stampede. The chessboard was flung into the air, the priceless gold and silver pieces scattering among the crowd, and there was an ungodly rush as people scrambled to grab them.

  Then another enraged group of spectators overturned the huge sign showing the draw for the tournament, while Afridi shouted, ‘It’s a sham! The whole thing is a sham!’ and with that the entire crowd began to riot.

  The playing stage was upturned and smashed to splinters by the crowd. Fires were lit. The people rampaged.

  Seeing the chaos, the Sultan fled, dashing off his royal stage, heading for the safety of the palace. The last rumour had his palace guards storming the Hagia Sophia with swords and shields, trying to disperse the crowd and restore order.

  Thus the Moslem sultan’s invitational chess championship of 1546 ended: in ignominy, with allegations of subterfuge and favouritism, without a winner being declared. History would never know of it.

  We rejoined Mr and Mrs Ponsonby and our English guards at the village outside the Golden Gate and immediately commenced the long journey home.

  Mrs Ponsonby had not wholly recovered from her poisoning, but she was looking much better. Upon seeing us, she was well enough to opine, ‘I do hope you protected the princess’s morals while you were in that city, Mr Ascham.’

  ‘I did my level best, madam,’ my teacher replied, and I think, like me, he was glad to see Mrs Ponsonby behaving like her old self again.

  Elsie lay curled in a tight ball in the back of one of our wagons, wrapped in a blanket, saying nothing. She would never be the same again. Her coltish spirit had been broken, her reckless taste for the pleasures of the flesh destroyed. I don’t know if she ever lay with a man again.

  As I sat with her in that wagon, with her head in my lap, stroking her hair, I pulled out the scarlet envelope that had been pushed under our door during the previous night.

  I cracked the Sultan’s wax seal and found a letter inside, written in English in the Sultan’s own hand:

  Dear Elizabeth,

  It was my great pleasure to meet you.

  There is something I wish to tell you as you leave my lands. By now you will have heard that every delegation that came to my tournament had to bring me a chest of gold or face invasion.

  Of all the delegations to send a player, only one did not send a chest. Yours.

  Instead of a chest of gold, I received a note from your father, King Henry. In that note, he wrote: ‘Good sir, I do not pay blood money to anyone. There are kings in this world and there are Kings of England. I am a King of England. If you wish to invade my lands, put on your armour and try your best. Henry VIII Rex.’

  I bid you good fortune, young Elizabeth, but I don’t think you will need it. With your clever teacher at your side and your father showing you how a true king should act, I imagine that, if God wills it, you will become a most formidable queen.

  Suleiman

  Caliph and Sultan of the Ottoman Lands

  With a sad smile, I folded the letter, placed it in my luggage and settled in for the journey.

  All the
way home, my teacher, the great Roger Ascham, rode out in front on his mare with an arrow notched in his bow.

  EPILOGUE

  1603

  MY QUEEN FINISHED SPEAKING.

  She would be dead a few weeks later.

  But now I knew: knew of her secret journey to that faraway land, of the tournament held there, of why Elsie had come home a shadow of her former self, and how my friend, Bessie, had come home hardened, made of sterner stuff.

  She was also different in other ways.

  From the moment she returned, she treated me with greater kindness, constantly telling me what a valued friend I was, even when I did not feel I deserved such praise. Her kind words would continue for the rest of our lives, even after she became queen.

  I had often wondered what had caused this profound change in my friend and now I knew. Sometimes we must go away to discover things about ourselves. Sometimes we go away with the wrong people. Sometimes we go away with the right teachers.

  As Queen of England, she would look after Roger Ascham to the end of his days, granting him property and even a canonry, despite the fact that he was not a minister of religion. And she called on him for advice. I know of at least two occasions when she did so—I was even present when in 1559 she called him at short notice to St Michael’s Mount to settle a most grim and frightening matter, but that is another tale for another day.

  I also recalled a time, much later in her life, when she dispatched a delegation of ambassadors to Constantinople to meet with the Sultan Suleiman. She had done it quite suddenly and for no apparent reason. At the time, no-one at court knew why.

  But when her men returned, I overheard one of them report to her: ‘The Sultan is a spent force, ma’am, broken and bitter. He is solitary and distrustful, even to members of his own family, and has become prone to long melancholy moods. The city, too, has fallen into disrepair.’

  Elizabeth asked about the palace and the Catholic embassy there. ‘It no longer exists. The Sultan ordered the Church’s embassy to be razed to the ground. Shortly after that, he expelled all representatives of the Holy See from his lands.’

  ‘So would I be correct in the opinion that Suleiman is no longer a threat to Europe?’ my queen asked.