They explored it with the enthusiasm of children, crossing the strait each morning to wander at will on the Asian side of the city, sampling language and culture, soaking up the richness before returning each night to their European style hotel.
“We were straddling a turning point,” Elizabeth said quietly, fingering the blade of her knife. “At night you could hear the wailing and singing of the mosques mixed up with the tolling of the church bells. And everywhere you looked the same contrast appeared.”
As they learnt more the choice before them simplified. They could follow the traditional route of journeying British and risk Moran following their trail, or they could throw all their concepts and prejudices aside and sink into the other world that began here in Constantinople.
The final result of this busy intersection of chances was perhaps inevitable.
During the fourth week of their stay, they were forced to visit the Al-Sahib square in the Arab quarter on the Asian side of the city. Communications in that part of the world are uncertain and Holmes knew the further east they traveled the less reliable they would become. He decided that his gold snuff box from the King of Bohemia must be sacrificed for they needed ready cash—nothing else would suffice.
Al-Sahib Square was a notorious trading place. There were money merchants there that would buy and sell anything without question and their prices were often higher than those which Holmes could have raised through legitimate dealers, who were subject to taxes, bribes and legal overheads. By this time they both knew they would be moving further east. The only questions that remained to be answered were when and in what direction. Successfully negotiating in Al-Sahib square would be good practice for their future financing methods.
Holmes did take some precautions.
It was vital Elizabeth accompany him, for a lone Arab was an easy target. Women were unwelcome there so she must go disguised as a man. The Arab burnoose they had been using, with its shrouding folds about the face, was the solution. Holmes was quietly confident that Elizabeth could handle any trouble that may arise and he could foresee none, for he was confident of his own grasp of Arabic and he had been born a good bargainer.
They entered the square in the hour before the second prayers, about nine o’clock. It was a hot, dusty morning with a stiff breeze which gave them a good excuse for muffling their features. Their only distinguishing feature was Holmes’ height, which made him unusually tall for an Arab.
As they had agreed, they circled the square once whilst Holmes established which agent would be the best to approach. Elizabeth’s vivid description of the square will stay with me forever:
“It was crowded, as all the city is crowded, but there was not a Turk or European in sight. Everywhere you looked you saw only anonymously veiled Arabs. The square is quite small and they crowded in there until there was barely enough room to breathe.
“It smelt…unwashed bodies, untended animals, hot savory food and the heat of late summer. The noise was an assault on the ears. Everyone spoke loudly and then there was the call of several minarets quite close by and that strange undulating music that the Arabs love to hear, played as loudly as possible. The merchants were all around the edge of the square and in a large circle in the middle, squatting on their mats, advertising their services at the top of their voices. All the animals were crying, bleating and calling and to be heard, one had to shout. With everyone shouting to be heard, you had to shout louder and the noise level spiraled upwards.
“A lot of the people seemed to just be there for the atmosphere. They didn’t appear to have pressing business but they watched everyone else with dark suspicious eyes. Those that were there on business were prepared to bargain hard and knew that the merchants would cheat them at the first opportunity, so they were tense, too.
“The menace was unmistakable. From the moment we entered I found myself holding the hilt of my knife inside my sleeve.”
It was indeed a chancy place. Money turns the heads of most of the human race and all those in the square with business to transact were already risking much, or they would have gone to lawful dealers elsewhere. So tempers were strained and Arabs are a fiery lot to begin with. Elizabeth was alert to even the smallest hint of trouble and she found herself falling back to keep Holmes’ tall figure in sight in front of her.
Abruptly, a loud fight broke out on their right. The crowd surged in that direction and they were dragged along with the tide. Elizabeth tried to keep her eyes on Holmes, searching out the tall figure. She sighted him again just as three dirty Arabs closed in on him. Somehow he had been marked. Possibly his height or his way of walking. She felt fear chill her bones as a long wicked knife rose and began to fall.
• Chapter Six •
_________________________
•ï¡÷¡ï•
FEAR TRIGGERED ELIZABETH into action that only later she was able to reconstruct clearly. Her knife was out and she threw herself on the back of the nearest of the three assailants. With one hand she sought the Arab’s chin and gripped it to steady the head. With a full, powerful swipe of her arm she slit his throat.
His gurgled cry, abruptly silenced, brought his two comrades’ attention upon her. A powerful hand groped for her throat and as she grabbed the wrist she heard Holmes’ calm, instructional voice in her mind, directing her actions. She plunged her knife into the folds of the burnoose where her grasp on his wrist told her his stomach would be. He bent tiredly over her arm and she pushed him back with her foot. She turned to locate the third attacker but someone had already silenced him. He lay in a huddled heap, his own long knife protruding from his chest.
She wheeled about to look for Holmes but a hand grasped her knife-arm and hauled her rapidly to her feet, spinning her around. She brought her other hand up to blind, but strong fingers clamped onto her wrist. She found herself staring into Holmes’ eyes. He pulled his head cloth aside a little so she could identify him.
“Fly!” he said, his voice rising over the deafening cacophony of reaction the fight had begun. “Run for your life!”
They turned and plunged into the crowd, which gave way in front of them like butter under a hot knife. Behind, a man called out in a mixture of Turkish and the bastardized Arabic of the city. Elizabeth understood only one word. “Kill.” Her feet picked up speed.
Once outside the square they could run. People scattered from their path as they approached. Behind them they could hear the ground reverberate with the sound of many pursuing feet. Neither risked a glance backwards.
Holmes began changing directions swiftly, diving into alleyways and back streets. They found themselves scaling walls and cannoning into washing lines, scattering chickens and pigs. Suddenly the sea was in front of them, while the Golden Horn and safety lay directly opposite.
Holmes turned to his right and worked his way along the narrow shore to where a jetty pushed out into the strait. He pulled her under the jetty and they crawled to the other side and crouched there, hidden from pursuit.
A couple of brown-skinned children watched them with large solemn eyes from their perch on the end of the jetty, then abruptly skittered past them like frightened rabbits and disappeared into the area of hovels lining the shore that Holmes and Elizabeth had just emerged from.
Holmes pulled off his Arab head gear, lifted the burnoose over his head and straightened up the western clothing he wore beneath. “Drop your knife,” he told her.
Elizabeth stared at him blankly, her breath loud in her ears.
He reached out to lift her arm so she could see her hand. It was still clutching the knife and her hand and wrist and the sleeve of the burnoose were red and sticky with blood.
“Oh, my god,” she whispered, the full horror of her deeds finally registering in her stupefied mind. She recalled the look of terror on the faces of the people who had scattered from their path and the feel of the knife sliding into warm flesh.
Abruptly she dropped the knife and turned and vomited into the sand. Holmes steadi
ed her until she had finished, then sat her down with her back resting against a jetty pylon. With scraps of material from his burnoose he cleaned the blood from her hands and washed her face. She passively allowed him to administer to her while she shivered in reaction. Then he cleaned the knife in the river, dried it on another clean scrap of material and held it out to her. “Strap this back in its sheath. We may need it again.”
She attempted to take the knife but her hand trembled too much. Wordlessly he pushed up her sleeve and slid the blade home for her. He studied her clinically. “Take what time you need,” he told her gently. “Bloodshed always affects a person to a diminishing degree. It doesn’t please me that I can confirm it becomes easier.”
Elizabeth finally found her voice. “I thought it was you they were attacking,” she said hoarsely.
Holmes took her face in his hands, looking at her with an open fondness that took her breath away and made her heart trip hammer. “I know,” he told her quietly. Then he dropped a light kiss on her forehead before returning to the task of cleaning up the sleeve of her burnoose.
“We’re not clear of it, yet,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “Arabs love a hunt and they will keep on it until sunset if necessary. Besides, I heard someone call out in Arabic that he wanted us and would pay.” He frowned. “I have an impression that it was the tall Arab whose life you so spectacularly saved.” He shrugged. “I will probably never learn the answer to that. Regardless, we must get you out of sight and the quickest way is to cross the strait and return to the hotel.” He went back to the water to rinse out his rag and when he returned he was laughing softly.
“Oh, what a merry joke! It would be inconceivable to them that the ferocious warrior they seek is a woman.”
“Please…I can’t laugh about it. Not yet.”
He shook his head, sobering. “It was well done. You acted when you needed to act. Hesitation would have been fatal and you did not hesitate. When arguments turn to bloody battles you cannot afford to dillydally about. Do not assume you over-reacted, for you did not.” He sat back and threw the rag into the river and pulled his sleeves down. “Do you think your legs will support you now? We must move from here. We’ve tarried overlong.”
Elizabeth nodded and Holmes helped her up. They climbed the rickety jetty, and crossed the pebbled shore, toward the ramshackle hovels behind them. They traversed a narrow alley and emerged into a street lined with the more permanent oriental style buildings characteristic of the city. Holmes checked his bearings.
Elizabeth waited passively. She noticed the children were back again, lined up along one blank wall, watching them. Their eyes were expressionless and their faces expectant.
Abruptly, a warning tingled in her mind and she reached for Holmes’ sleeve, trying to voice it. But it was too late. A net, smelling rankly of over-ripe fish, descended over their heads. Elizabeth lifted her arm to ward it off. Her breath was cut off as another large, heavy layer dropped on them and she was enveloped in a constricting, dark prison.
They were lifted and carried on a journey of considerable distance and time. The one significant detail Elizabeth could establish from within her muffled enclosure was that they were carried over the strait, the boat rocking gently in the wavelets. She felt herself beginning to relax a little. It was highly unlikely the Arabs hunting them for vengeance on their fallen comrades would carry them into the European sector, an area of the city they would not be familiar with. They would have exacted a swift and merciless retribution. Whoever had ensnared them was a new player who would probably make himself known at the end of this journey.
Finally she felt herself being placed on firmer ground and she cautiously pushed at the tangle of waterproof canvas and fishing net. When her probing elicited no response, she rapidly untangled herself and breathed in fresh air, looking about.
Holmes sat next to her in the midst of another pile of net and canvas, casually rearranging his ruffled clothes.
They were in a room of palatial proportions. The ceiling arched overhead in graceful vaulted sections, then soared down to a row of massive pillars that marched along either side of the room. Between the pillars on her left was a wall hung with beautiful tapestries and carpets and pierced in several places by ornately carved double wooden doors which led further into the building. On the right the pillars opened onto a lattice-carved stone screen that revealed a view overlooking the city and the Golden Horn promontory. The view gave Elizabeth a small clue to their location, for this section of the Bosphorus was lined with palaces, mosques and gardens built by the Sultans.
Apart from the end where they found themselves, the room was empty of furnishings. Beneath them lay a luxurious Persian carpet of grand dimensions and before them was what Elizabeth immediately dubbed a throne. It was a wide chair of exquisitely carved marble and she speculated briefly how anyone might manage to shift it. Sitting on the throne was a large, dark-eyed man watching their silent observations. He was naked from the waist up and another man in western clothes was attending to a cut on his back. Elizabeth inferred that this must be the Arab she had mistaken for Holmes.
She glanced at Holmes. He shook his head very slightly and she guessed his message. Stay silent.
They climbed to their feet.
The Arab addressed Holmes in Arabic. “European…French?”
“English.” Holmes replied.
“Ah, that is good. My French is atrocious,” the Arab replied in beautifully spoken English. “You must forgive the informality of my attire. I was bleeding like a stuck pig and had to have it seen to.”
“May I know why you have detained us?” Holmes asked.
The Arab smiled. “I am Sullah Muhammad Zia-ad-din Ahmad. It is my miserable skin your friend there saved. I merely wished to thank you and return the debt if I could.”
“Your methods are somewhat violent,” Holmes pointed out.
“Ah, yes. I told my men I wanted you alive and unhurt. You must understand they had witnessed your skills in the square and were worried as to how they could approach you without being misinterpreted. They do not speak the Arabic of Constantinople. So they were forced to be a little more direct.”
“Then you are not Arab?” Holmes asked.
“Allah be praised!” he said with a mighty shout of laughter. “I am Persian.”
Holmes relaxed, pushing his hands into his pockets. There was the beginning of a smile on his face. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“As you are, my friend,” Sullah replied. He pointed to Elizabeth. “Does your companion speak English?”
“Yes,” Holmes replied.
Sullah addressed himself to Elizabeth. “I am grateful for your intervention this morning, friend. Never have I seen such ferocity. It would please me to look upon your face so I might recognize a friend in future, as I have allowed you to look upon mine.”
Elizabeth glanced at Holmes for guidance. He nodded reassuringly. “Reveal yourself,” he told her. “It is an insult if you do not.”
Elizabeth pulled the folds aside and her hair tumbled down about her face. She brushed the locks aside and found Sullah staring at her, dumbfounded. Then the tanned, wrinkled face creased into folds of mirth. He began to laugh, a low silent chuckle that quickly became a long loud peal of hearty guffaws that left him shaking and helpless.
The doctor stepped back until Sullah had himself under control and Elizabeth glanced at Holmes uncertainly. He was smiling, thoroughly enjoying Sullah’s surprise and merriment. She felt a small smile pulling at her own mouth. Sullah’s bellows were infectious.
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
Sullah was a Persian merchant who traded in anything of value. Horses were his joy, and he found a constant demand in Persia for any Arabian horses he could lay his hands on. He followed the trade routes on the east coast of the Mediterranean for most of the year and almost every spring he would arrive in Constantinople with carpets to sell to the rich European merchants, r
aising funds for the rest of the year’s living expenses and for his hunt for the best of the Arabian breeds.
He had been educated in England, for his father foresaw the advantages to a man that could speak as an equal to the men he wished to trade with. His head wife was English, courted and married whilst studying. As a consequence his households were a strange mix of east and west.
He had a small house in Baghdad and a very large country establishment just outside of Mashhad, on the foothills of the Elburz Mountains where he pastured his horses. He was a wealthy man and he was in love with life, living each day with a gusto and enthusiasm that might have been naïve had it not been complimented with a worldly shrewdness.
Once the initial mirth over Elizabeth’s identity had passed they exchanged names. Holmes cautiously used Sigerson as he had throughout their journeys. Sullah insisted they remain as his guests until either of them left the city. He was planning on staying for another two weeks only before setting out on the long slow journey back to Persia. He did not wish to find himself still travelling when the harsh Persian winter arrived.
People of the east regard the debt of life a serious matter. Because it had been Elizabeth who had saved his life, Sullah found he could treat her as his equal. He’d had experience with this concept of feminine equality from his time in England. He was helped by his admiration for her skills, which was boundless.
He finished their interview in the throne room—as it transpired to be—by organizing for their luggage to be collected at the hotel and graciously inviting them to dine with him that night, after they had rested and recovered in the rooms he had put aside for their use.
A young girl in a simple white tunic came forward. “My daughter, Tayisha,” Sullah explained while the girl bowed deeply toward them. “She speaks English well. She will show you to your rooms and can assist you with any questions you have.”
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 9
