‘I believe so, but as you say I have no letter. If he could be given paper, of course, at my expense. If I had a message from him …’
‘And then what?’
‘I have little money, it’s true, but might the Sultan be interested in trading the map for my son?’ He stopped at the horrified expression on the ambassador’s face. For the first time, Christopher became truly aware of just how alien Constantinople was. This man was the representative of their king and yet he obviously felt powerless to help his subjects. And he seemed, quite frankly, frightened of the map. Christopher suddenly felt a very long way from home. The ambassador was not the first person to have told him to keep the map’s existence to himself. He did not know enough about this place or the people within it to make any sensible decisions. His blundering was like a child trying to stroke a viper.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying not to sound as bleak as he felt. ‘I realise you take me for a fool.’
‘I realise your pain,’ said John Finch stiffly. ‘And I am sorry for it. If I could give you hope I would.’
‘You are saying there is no hope?’
‘I am saying there is very little. I will ask, but it may not be soon. Diplomacy takes its own time and you must remember: you are not the only person to have lost a child, a parent, even a wife this dolorous way.’ He got up and escorted Christopher to the door. ‘Do as I say with that thing. I do not want it in this house. As for the rest, live your life, Sir Christopher. Live your life.’
18
Christopher thrust the map inside his shirt, bowed to the ambassador and allowed a servant to lead him to his quarters. It was a modest room, with a window shuttered against the sun, giving onto a small courtyard. His food would be found for him, so he would have little need to spend.
As soon as the servant had gone, he pulled the map back out of his shirt. What to do? How could he destroy the last thing his son had given him? But the ambassador had made it clear that it was not to be in this house. The map was, at the moment, the dearest thing he had, and yet seemed at the same time a dangerous document that only served to point out his ignorance. Should he throw up his hands in defeat and go home? Was it now that he should do the unimaginable and abandon all hope? Should it be here, in this foreign city? He had determined never to contemplate such a betrayal. But Christopher felt old and worn down with care. Every time he thought he was making progress he was thwarted. There were too many obstacles, not enough clues, and he was the only person in the world who cared.
He sat on a stool in the gloom and bent his head. Sir John Narborough, however many cannon he had, would not sail all the way to Constantinople, sack the palace and release the slaves. He might dissuade the pirates at the mouth of the Mediterranean from raiding the English coast, but he would not rescue those already captured. It was for the King’s ambassador to use his diplomacy to help their cause. And as far as Christopher could see, the ambassador was a timid, ineffectual fool. He didn’t care about the King’s subjects. No. If anything was to be achieved, Christopher was going to have to do it himself. He should stop feeling sorry for himself and remember that Abel was in a far worse situation. He, Christopher, was free to come and go at will, while his son was a captive. He would be relying on his father to not give up. There were too many things about Abel’s disappearance he didn’t understand, so he must, surely, keep the map until he had explored all its possibilities.
Christopher took a deep breath and raised his head. Burning the map was not the answer. It made him uncomfortable to disobey the ambassador, but he was angry with him now, and yet the idea of looking for a different place to stay was not attractive to him. Surely, this little part of England was safer than anywhere else in the city? And he needed to keep himself safe for Abel’s sake, as well as to save his money.
He folded the map carefully and put it in the inner pocket of his coat. While he waited for the ambassador to raise his case, if he even intended to do so, Christopher would make it his business to learn as much as he could about the city: its streets, shops and businesses; its parks, buildings and the people living in them. He would watch and listen, roam the crowded alleys and hope that one day he might even see, in the slim figure of a trusted slave out on some errand, the unmistakable face of his beloved son.
Crossing the stretch of sea that divided the city, Christopher felt as if he were approaching the maw of a beautiful monster. He had lived too long in the country. London’s cacophony had been shock enough, but crossing the Thames was nothing to this. The crowded sea chopped and spat at the small vessel until he wondered if he would ever reach the further shore. When he did, it was not easy to disembark. A crowd of people surrounded him as he stepped ashore, all demanding or offering something. He waded through them, rejecting them all, but they hardly retreated. Eventually, he out-strode most at the jetty, but more appeared wherever he went. There was no way he could observe anything with such a riotous entourage. He was beginning to despair when a man in a long dark robe approached. With hardly a word from him the crowd melted away, leaving them in a small oasis of peace in the busy street.
‘How did you do that?’
The man smiled. ‘Speaking in your language will not help,’ the man said. ‘You must do this.’ He moved his head in an abrupt manner. ‘That will show them you are not as foreign as you look. And you can say this too.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Christopher, trying to get his mouth to make the same sounds as the man. The Arabic he thought he had learnt in London had not been pronounced like the language spoken here.
‘With the head and the tongue, you are saying that you want nothing and that you are local. They will see with their eyes it is not true, but they will also see and hear that you know enough to mean what you say.’
‘Thank you. It is similar in London, but there I know how to refuse.’
‘A stranger offers an opportunity and they are poor people.’ He touched his hand briefly to his breast. Before Christopher could think to do the same in politeness the man had turned away and was already being swallowed up in the crowd.
Christopher plunged at random into a side street, in the hope it might lead to the palace. The walls were lost to him with so many buildings blocking his view, but he was fairly sure he was going in the right direction. Eventually he came to a more open space. There, in front of him, was a beautiful domed building with slim minarets on either side. He approached it curiously but was alarmed by a number of well-armed men in his way, wearing colourful robes and tall hats. The map in his coat felt uncomfortably obvious, although he knew it was nervousness rather than the map that was showing. He turned and was about to retrace his steps when he saw a gateway set into what looked very much like the palace wall.
There were gatekeepers at the entrance and, although many people seemed to be passing in and out freely enough, some were turned away. Christopher sighed. He needed to know the etiquette of this place and what documents would be required. He should give himself the very best chance of being admitted. Perhaps this was not even the correct entrance for making enquiries. He wondered if any of the guards would speak his language as fluently as the helpful man in the dark robe and wished he was with him still. At the edge of his mind were the seeds of a mad plan involving disguise, the climbing of walls and secret use of the map. Being so close to the palace made him itch to do something, almost anything, to gain entrance. He was full of excitable energy and could feel his brain beginning to overheat in a familiar manner. He wanted to roar his son’s name in the hope that Abel might hear him, but he did not. He must not blunder unwittingly into difficulties. He sat for a while, taking pains to calm himself, but the sun was climbing higher and Christopher was getting uncomfortably warm. Perhaps if he returned to Pera he could find Jacob the Dutchman and a shady place to sit so he could ask him what he knew of the great city. Pleased with this idea, and hopeful that some useful information would result, he headed once more for the shore and found a boat without difficulty.
The sea was even more choppy than before. By the time he landed, he was quite wet through.
‘Christopher!’
It was Ethan. Lingering by the food stalls at the water’s edge appeared to be a favourite pastime of his.
‘How goes your day? Here, have one of these. They’re delicious.’
Christopher took the small ball of spiced meat Ethan handed him and put it in his mouth. It was indeed delicious.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve just returned.’ Christopher waved his hand in the direction of the water. ‘From the other side.’
‘Oh.’ Ethan looked disappointed. He made a small moue of displeasure, but couldn’t keep a smile from his mouth for long. ‘I was going to cross with Jacob, but he had business to attend to here. I am determined to go tomorrow … unless, having met you, you would like to go back with me now as my guide?’
Christopher wiped the grease from his lips and shook his head. ‘I doubt I could guide you after one visit. And I was hoping to speak to Jacob. Do you know if he’ll be free later?’
‘I do. We are going to meet at the hammam.’ Ethan laughed at Christopher’s ignorance. ‘It’s a bathhouse. My father took me when I was a boy and I’m looking forward to going again. Jacob knows of a good place. Join us! You can speak to Jacob then, while we wash off our long journey.’
It was early afternoon by the time Christopher returned to his lodgings. The cool, quiet room was welcome after the day’s noise and heat. Feeling tired after his exertions, he lay on the bed and closed his eyes.
He was woken with a start by a banging at the outer door. He heard the servant speaking to someone and was already drawing on his coat by the time the servant came to tell him that Ethan and Jacob were there.
The hammam was a circular, domed building with walls and floor of marble. Christopher gave himself up to the ministrations of the young bath attendants after first asking each if he knew a boy called Abel.
‘Come,’ said Ethan. ‘They don’t understand you. And surely the chances of them knowing him must be slight in the extreme. Didn’t you say he is a slave in the palace?’
‘What’s this?’ said Jacob. ‘Your son, you say?’
Christopher told his story while the heat drew the travel weariness out of his body and reduced his overwrought mind to a semblance of peace. By the time they had been washed and sweated and washed some more he felt calmer than he had done for a long time. Unfortunately, Jacob knew nothing of the palace, although he had plenty of advice about the best markets to go to and which bankers to approach. He, like Ethan, was involved in trade and preferred to leave politics and officialdom as far as possible to the ambassador and his staff. Listening to them talk, Christopher felt alone with his troubles.
The following day he tried to see the ambassador but was told he was not available. Back in his room he unfolded the map yet again and studied the maze of rooms in the palace, as well as noting all the possible entrances. He made his way down to the jetty and once again took a boat across the Golden Horn.
This time, instead of hurrying past all the shops, he loitered, picking up the atmosphere while looking to see what was for sale in this great foreign city. After dawdling through the narrow streets for some time, he stopped at a metalworker’s to admire the considerable skill of the artisan at work. The man looked up. He began to smile at his assumed customer, but then his smile faded into an expression of alarm. Before Christopher could turn to see what had so alarmed the man, his arm was gripped in a vice-like hold and he felt the point of a knife held close to his ribs. No words were spoken, but by the prodding of the knife he was propelled inexorably along the crowded street with his assailant as close as a lover.
Christopher had no option but to obey the knife’s point. He wondered about calling for help, but who would help him in this place? He so feared the blade sliding into his body that he kept his breath as shallow as he could. He had little doubt that his captor was taking him to a quiet place where he would be robbed and murdered. If only he could run, but his arm was too tightly gripped. He was sure that if he attempted to pull away, the knife would do far more than scratch him. His heart was thudding with mingled fear, anger and despair. How cruel to be cheated of life in this most casual way by a street thief. And even if left alive, how terrible to be robbed of the map and his chance of finding his son. Apart from the clothes he wore and a few coins it was the only thing he had with him.
It was too much to hope his murderer would understand English, but when they came to a halt just inside a covered market, next to a stall selling fine silks, he attempted to speak to his captor.
‘I will willingly give you what I have,’ he said. ‘In return for my life. I am a friend of the English amba—’
The knife found its way through his jacket and shirt. It sawed at his skin between two ribs. He couldn’t help leaping forward. He stumbled and found himself imprisoned behind the stall. The stall-holder refused to meet his eye and moved away without a word. Death felt very close. Prodding like a callous surgeon into the cut, the knife pushed Christopher agonisingly on, straight towards an embroidered curtain that half hid a doorway. They went through into a twisting, private passageway.
Before his eyes had time to adjust to the gloom, a hood was thrown over his head. Not being able to see was fearsome. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. He began a muttered chant, which he thought was his son’s name but then realised it was his long-dead mother he was calling for. It was hard to breathe, but the knife sent a maddening pain into his side every time he hesitated. His journey, it seemed, was not yet done. Stumbling constantly and feebly outraged that he could not see the face of his captor he was pushed on, changing direction so many times he was completely disorientated. Suddenly, the point of the knife, his only guide, was withdrawn. He was turned again, and the hood was pulled roughly off his head.
He gasped, drawing welcome air into his lungs. He was in a rug shop, or at least the back room of such a place. The small room was almost filled with Turkey carpets made in rich colours. Christopher had seen one similar piece at Whitehall, but here there were many, some piled and others hanging like tapestries, making the place more like a stuffy cave than a room. There was no window, but several hanging lamps, whose light made the carpets glow. At his ease, sitting in front of him was a man. He looked as English as Christopher, but over his linen and breeches he wore the same sort of long robe as had the man who had been so helpful in the street the previous day.
‘Would you like some tea?’ The man’s voice was polite, even friendly. He sounded as English as he looked. He was acting as calmly as if they had met by arrangement, while Christopher’s heart was still pounding. Suddenly, fear seemed out of place. Had he dreamt the vice-like grip of an assailant? But the scratch in his side, from which blood had trickled, still pained him. He had imagined nothing. One moment he was expecting to die, and the next he was invited to drink tea. It was impossible to know how to respond, but the man was obviously expecting an answer, so Christopher said the first thing that came into his mind.
‘I do not know your name.’
The man seemed amused. He smiled but made no answer. ‘Please, do sit down.’
Christopher hesitated. He was still stuck between horror and hospitality. There was no stool, only a low heap of rugs in front of him. He wished to turn his head, to look about for a seat, but his flesh shrank at the thought of his assailant still behind him and he did not quite dare to do it.
The man laughed. ‘Come, sir! Sit! If you want my help I will need to hear your story.’ He glanced at the person behind Christopher with an expression that seemed full of tenderness. Surprised into a lack of fear, Christopher turned his head. Behind him stood a tall African man, who looked at his captive impassively. There were no chairs.
‘Make no mistake about Ahmed. He is no slave, nor servant, and doubtless far wealthier than you. He is mute and illiterate but has a prodigious intellect and we understand one another perfectly. He
will bring us some tea once you are sitting. Please.’ The man extended his arm. Instead of pointing at the rugs, the fingers of his hand remained curled inwards. It was however obvious what he meant and so Christopher sat.
Ahmed brought a small table and placed it between the two men. It made Christopher feel like a child, sitting as he was a little lower than his host. He fought his inclination to get up and walk about. Soon, on the table were two tea glasses and a small metal dish of sweetmeats. Ahmed poured the tea and the green liquid sent up a fragrant minty steam. He acknowledged Christopher’s thanks with a nod and melted back into the shadowy rear of the room. The man picked up one of the glasses and raised it to Christopher.
‘Now, sir, please forgive the way you were brought to me, but Constantinople can be a dangerous place and it is not always a good idea to broadcast your business. As you see, it is already common knowledge that you were looking to meet me. Here, however, we have privacy, so perhaps you will tell me why you need my help?’
‘But I do not know you! How could anyone know I want your help when I do not?’
The man looked surprised, even slightly offended. ‘Are you not in need of help?’
‘Who in the world would not welcome a helping hand in one way or another? But how can you judge what I need? And the way you had me brought here, not like any civilised …’
‘Bluster ill becomes you, sir.’
His tone was still perfectly even, but there was a steeliness in his eyes that had not been there before. Christopher took a sip of the fragrant tea to steady himself.
‘I am sorry if I appear impolite. Perhaps our ambassador or one of his people have spoken to you of my quest?’
The man left the question hanging in the air between them, not choosing to reply or to say anything on his own account. The longer it hovered there the more ridiculous the question seemed. Christopher felt obliged to say more. ‘I don’t yet know the ways of this city, but your methods seem more like …’
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 15
