In the corner, a wooden chair lay on its side, with two old wooden crates nearby. Righting the chair, Skiouros glanced around over the low, ruinous walls for any sign of pursuit and sank into the chair with a sigh of relief. He was free.
Free?
In Ottoman ‘Istanbul’ there was precious little true freedom for a Greek Christian, however liberated they were officially. Oh the conqueror Mehmet had apparently been remarkably tolerant of his new subjects, and even Skiouros’ father had been surprisingly complimentary about the man. Moreover, this Bayezid the Second was already being referred to as ‘The Just’, but how free could a man be when most of his own city was a foreign nation, and his religion tolerated so long as it did not intrude into his masters’ lives?
For a man like Skiouros, however, freedom was no illusion. His choice of profession, dangerous and illegal though it may be, allowed him a freedom that few others in the city could experience.
With a sense of achievement and satisfaction, the thief leaned back and withdrew the heavy leather purse from his doublet. Weighing it in his hand, he couldn’t even begin to estimate the haul he’d just taken. Certainly it felt like a goodly amount.
Savouring the moment, he examined the purse and came to the conclusion that the leather article itself was probably worth more than some of his days’ takings. The whole thing was decorated with intricate stitching, singeing and staining such that it showed some deeply Arabic desert scene, surrounded by delicate patterns. The catch was of polished brass.
Smelling the rich, oiled leather and noting a hint of spice about the odour, Skiouros finally relented and undid the catch. The cold sunlight filtering down through the weeds and branches that formed a natural roof over this corner of the room glinted on a variety of metals: copper, silver and even gold.
Skiouros dragged the crate over and turned it so that the up-facing side was the most solid and flat. Then being careful to contain the distribution with his free hand, he tipped the purse’s contents out onto his makeshift table.
The first thing that caught his attention was the disproportionate amount of high currency to low. There was enough gold in there to buy a house – or more. The second was the nature of the currency. He had seen enough Turkish coins in his eight years of flitching them to identify them, often right down to the mint that had issued them, and despite not having a grasp of the written word in any language. These coins were clearly not Turkish but Arabic of some sort. Who was this strange man? A foreign merchant seemed the obvious answer, but what would a rich Arab merchant be doing in the poor Greek quarter? It was a puzzle that he was beginning to dislike even the look of.
With a sigh of mixed relief, satisfaction and faint worry, he scratched his head. He would take a stroll to the Jewish quarter. There was a dealer in antiquities there called Judah Ben Isaac, who would be able to identify the currency and could read a dozen different scripts. Judah would tell him what these coins were and might even be able to change them for less distinctive Turkish currency at the same time. Yes, he would head there in an hour or so, as soon as he was fully convinced there was no chance of his pursuers picking up his trail again.
With a grim nod of satisfaction he decided to put the haul away. No point in tempting fate; best to keep them stowed safely for now.
Reaching down, Skiouros picked up the largest of the gold coins, admiring it as it glinted in the sunlight, turning it over a couple of times to admire the workmanship, biting lightly on the edge to test the quality of the metal. It was not just gold, it was good gold. With a grin of true satisfaction, he lifted the purse again to slot the coin in and realised that it was not quite empty. A small piece of paper had caught against the lip and remained within.
Intrigued, Skiouros removed the scrap and examined it. Once more, the script on it was completely indecipherable, but it had been penned in a fluid and graceful script. Turning the paper over, he discovered nothing on the reverse. Just two short lines of text. Another job for Judah, then.
Slowly, allowing plenty of time to pass and examining each in turn for design, presumed worth and metal content, Skiouros replaced the coins in the purse and then added the piece of paper. After perhaps half an hour, his impatience to learn more about his haul overcame the desire to stay hidden for longer and he stood, stretched, and pocketed the purse.
Feeling relaxed and a little excited by this intriguing development, he strode out of the room with its shattered floor, past another chamber with a rubble-filled half-moon basin in the corner and then a broken hall with niches along one wall, and out into the world once more.
He emerged, a shiver running through him as the enforced period of prolonged inactivity had cooled his muscles. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he pushed his way through the hanging whip-like branches of an invading tree and appeared in the open ground on the deep, untamed grass.
So immersed in his mental whirlwind was he that he almost fell over the woman sitting on the ground, and had to perform a strange jig to keep his feet and balance.
Idiot! It was inattentiveness like that which killed his kind.
His hand went to his waist, where a knife hung on his belt, as he spun to examine this woman who had no legitimate excuse for loitering and lurking in such a rarely-visited place.
Relief filled him as he recognised the figure for what she was: A Romani – one of those nomadic magicians from the east who were now to be found all over the former lands of Byzantium.
“I nearly trampled you, old woman” he said.
The old woman looked up, holding her arms out to her sides, and Skiouros realised now what she had been doing, hunched over the grass. On a patch of dry dirt, the wizened, lined and leathery old woman had the corpse of a crow laid out flat and was busily removing the bones with infinite care, one by one. Involuntarily, he shuddered.
“Amri tuti!” she snapped, making an unfamiliar, but clearly unpleasant gesture at him with her outstretched arms.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that means” he replied calmly. “Are you…” he shuffled uneasily. “Are you a witch?”
“If you say” she replied noncommittally, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I…” he had no idea what to say, and surrendered to the obvious. “I have to go.”
“Flee to shelter.” The old woman said, bending back to her work.
“Sorry?”
“A storm comes. Big storm. You find shelter.”
Frowning, Skiouros looked up at the chilly clear blue sky and shook his head.
“No sign of a storm, old witch. I think you’re picking over the wrong bird.”
The woman paused in her gruesome task once again and looked up at him. There was something about the glint in her eye that sent a chill through him – a chill which had nothing to do with the weather, and which made him feel like a five year old fearing the monsters in every shadow of the farmhouse.
“A storm comes and it brings death and pain. Find shelter now and stay there.”
Narrowing her eyes, she gestured with worrying accuracy at the very place beneath his tunic where he had secreted the purse.
“And forget about that. No good comes of it.”
“You only say that because you haven’t got it. Go back to dismembering birds, old woman. God reigns in the city of Constantine; not your weird ways.”
The woman gave him a gap-toothed smile that contained all the humour of a burial chamber and which sent yet another chill through him.
“Go.”
Without needing any further urging, Skiouros turned his back on the old witch and her grisly pastime, and strode through the undergrowth to the alley that would lead him towards the empty shell of the Pammakaristos church. All the way out of the bath house’s surrounding vegetation, he could feel what he was sure was her gaze boring into his back, filling him with uncertainty and superstition.
The Romani were strange ones, with powers that no one could explain. The Orthodox priests called them children of the devil, and
the Imams of the Ottoman mosques had no better words to say about them, but there was definitely something about them that felt not-of-this-world. Skiouros was still feeling eerily chilled and uncomfortable even when he moved into the current of people that was the lifeblood of the city.
Feeling at least relieved that there was precious little chance of being pulled up for his adventure in the marketplace, while still under a cloud somehow caused by the Romani witch, Skiouros strode down the hill that led from the Greek district of Phanar to the Jewish area of Balat.
Despite the unmarked delineation of the nations, the architecture and atmosphere changed hardly at all as Skiouros passed from the Greek to the Jewish enclave. Only the personal appearance and habits of those people wandering about the streets labelled this a Jewish area. Over the past eight years in the city, Skiouros had spent a great deal of time in Balat and had come to know a number of its residents on what he considered friendly terms. For a man in his profession it was a Godsend to have such a collection of shrewd traders, monetary experts and merchants nearby, many of whom were happy to deal with a man suspected of being on the wrong side of the law. After all, it was Ottoman law these days and the Jews had fared much the same under their rule as the Christians – a campaign of tolerant mastery.
Fifteen minutes’ walk brought him to the house of Judah Ben Isaac, a man who dealt in treasures, fine sculptures, coins and other similar goods, supplying the houses of those wealthy Ottomans who exhibited a taste for the artistic, and slowly becoming the richest non-Muslim in the whole city. Ben Isaac maintained a modest house, but with his unseemly wealth and the patronage and support of some of the most influential Turks in the city, he was a man with a great deal of understated power. It was said that he ran other businesses on the shadier side of the legal system, but that was something that Skiouros was happy to avoid. Organised crime just meant more people to take a cut of your pickings. One thing that stood out, though, about Ben Isaac’s residence was its construction. It rose like an island of stone among so many timber structures
At the door, David met him as usual. A hulking man who seemed incongruous with his ringlets and skullcap, given his enormous muscles and reputation for causing damage, David had long since become a friend, or at least a friendly acquaintance.
“Skiouros.”
“Shalom, David. Is master Ben Isaac available? I have a few questions to put to him, and possibly a healthy commission.”
The brute nodded, the shiny black ringlets bobbing beside his lantern jaw, and gestured inside. “Usual place.”
Skiouros bowed slightly in respect as he passed the big enforcer and stepped into the house. An ‘office’ of sorts sat off to the right of the entrance corridor, the desk and chairs arranged in just such a way as to make the visitor feel humble and to emphasise the power of the building’s owner. The first dozen times Skiouros had been here, he’d been met in the office. These days he was allowed to greet the house’s master in the casual atmosphere of the second room.
Mounting three stairs, the thief turned into the next doorway and smiled.
“Master Judah. Shalom, my friend.”
The elderly Jew, his ringlets silvery white and his shoulders slightly hunched, looked up from whatever he was doing and focused on the visitor, an expression of noncommittal recognition passed across his face and he returned to examining the lists on his desk.
“Shalom, my Greek filos. How can I be of assistance?” His words were pleasant and to the point, but his attention remained riveted on the paper lists.
“I need some help, master Judah.”
“Of course you do. Those with no need of help do not seek me out. Elucidate, my boy.”
“I have some coins with which I’m not familiar. If you will tell me about them and how to get them changed, I will let you keep five of them of your choice.”
“Five coins is a pittance for my work, young man.”
“Not these coins, I suspect.”
For the first time, Judah Ben Isaac’s attention shifted from the paperwork to his visitor and he looked up with an interested gleam shining out from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows.
“Intrigue me.”
Without saying more, Skiouros withdrew his new purse from his doublet and unfastened it with a flourish. As the Jew frowned, he tipped the contents onto the table, where they scattered on the felt cover. He almost grinned at the sudden change of expression on the old man’s face and the hint of hunger in his eyes.
“Interesting, then?”
“Six coins” the old man said with an air of finality. Skiouros chewed his lip for a moment, but nodded. It was worth the extra coin to keep the good faith of a man like Judah Ben Isaac, and six coins out of this pouch would still leave a small fortune.
“Six; agreed.”
The ageing Jew pored over the offering, turning over the coins and examining them with great interest.
“You don’t know what these are?”
“No.”
Judah Ben Isaac shook his head as he leaned back. “These are Mamluk coins, from Egypt. They are of little use to you.”
Skiouros felt a cold shiver run through him. The empire had been in a constant state of hot-and-cold war with the Mamluk Sultanate for nine years now, ever since the usurper Cem had allied with them in his failed attempt to take the throne. His mind furnished him with an image of the man in the wealthy cloak with the dark skinned face and narrow moustache, apparently engaged in some nefarious activity in the fruit market. The Mamluks?
“Can they be exchanged?”
“I would be interested to know how you came by them, I have to say” Ben Isaac frowned, “but not interested enough to pry. Some things are best left unlearned, I find.”
“But can you change them?” Skiouros repeated urgently.
“I can change them, yes, but not through a local source. Given the war, these are less than useless in the empire. No Ottoman will handle a Mamluk coin at the moment, and their very presence here raises some dangerous and uncomfortable questions. I will have to change them with a western dealer. I can exchange them for Venetian ducats, but the relationship between Venice and the Mamluks is cold at best, so I do not anticipate a good rate. And then, of course, I will have to change the ducats for good Ottoman sultani and akce. I would hazard a guess at this haul being worth perhaps fifty ducats – after my deduction of six gold coins, of course.”
Skiouros’ mind raced. He’d handled ducats a few times. Fifty sounded like an enormous sum.
“And then,” Ben Isaac went on, “when I change the ducats to local coinage, we’ll be looking at perhaps two thousand akce – forty sultani. I cannot guarantee this, of course, but that is my estimate.”
The young man swayed a little on his feet. He’d managed to lift a few sultani here and there in his time, but had never in his life held more than two at a time. Forty? Just one would buy his new boots with coin to spare. He looked up into the calculating eyes of Judah Ben Isaac, who tapped his chin.
“Bear in mind, my Greek friend, that there is no guarantee that the deal will go through. It is very likely, but such a large sum in a coinage belonging to an enemy state will make many a trader nervous. Are you comfortable leaving the money with me?”
Skiouros fought down the urge to say no. Ben Isaac was not a man to insult and when involved in a business deal, he was known to be trustworthy; in all fairness, the money was probably more secure in this house than anywhere Skiouros could keep it.
“Of course, master Ben Isaac. But I am… a little light at the moment?”
The elderly Jew laughed and leaned forward once more, his fingers tracing motions around the gold coins on the table.
“Up my commission to seven coins, and I will give you fifty akce to take now.”
It was a poor deal, and both men knew it. Despite the dangers of refusing this man, Skiouros cleared his throat. “A hundred. Two sultani if you prefer. My boots leak.”
There was a silent, dangerous pause, and J
udah Ben Isaac threw his arms wide in defeat.
“Alright, my boy. You win. Haggling with a Greek, they say, is like trying to ride a two-legged donkey: it takes too long and you’ll wish you hadn’t tried. Two sultani it is. Buy yourself new boots. And get yourself a bath; you smell like a midden.”
Skiouros grinned and watched the old man reach into a drawer in the back of his desk, removing a small brass tin, unlocking it with a key from within his voluminous robes, and producing two shining gold coins, each bearing the likeness of Mehmet the Conqueror. He slapped them down on the far side of the desk and Skiouros swept them gratefully into his grip. Taking a deep breath, he reached down to the empty purse, still in his other hand, and removed the piece of paper he’d kept inside with a carefully-placed fingertip.
“One last thing, master Judah. Could you tell me what this says?”
The house’s owner reached out and took the paper gently, holding it up and peering myopically at it.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes” he replied, placing the purse on the table as he secreted away the two coins in his own pouch.
The old man narrowed his eyes and swept out a hand to take in the spread of coins. “Bear in mind the trouble you’re skirting with all this. I ask again, are you sure you want to know?”
Skiouros frowned at the old man’s manner. What was he suggesting?
“Yes, I want to know.”
“Very well. This note was written in true Arabic, but not by a native speaker. I suspect it was penned by a Christian, as I believe the line was written incorrectly from left to right. It is an address and a date. The date is today, and the address is Zagan Pasha Caddesi – the house with the yellow marble columns.”
“I don’t know the street.”
“I suspect you do, though in your Greek quarter it is still known mostly by its old name: The Street of the Hercules Statue. Out by the church of Saint John?”
Thief's Tale Page 5
