He wandered around for some hours speaking to as many people as he could find, but none were able to help. When he started to receive suspicious looks, he knew it was time to stop his line of enquiry. He paused to purchase some water and a piece of bread flavoured with herbs, and sat in the shade of a tamarisk tree to escape the midday sun. Although the locals were accustomed to having visitors in their town, it was foolish for a stranger to appear too curious. He’d learnt that lesson the hard way in his youth, when four broad-shouldered fishermen had taken physical exception to his investigations. He tossed his crust to the seagulls and washed down his meal with the remaining water. After deciding to make one more enquiry of an old woman selling cabbages, he felt ready to abandon his quest and to join his shipmates at the tavern. However, she pointed him in the direction of a notice painted on a wooden board. He read in Greek:
The Turk.
Witness an astonishing spectacle as the Ottoman Empire’s most feared gladiator meets all challengers in death-match combat.
Win gold and glory!
This week only at the La Canea Arena.
Kidd asked the old woman if the sign was current. She gave him an assenting nod, and a cabbage, and mumbled through toothless gums, something about the need to keep his strength up if he were interested in competing in the tournament. He thanked her and wandered off in search of the tavern.
The Masala’s crew were already making merry, and a cup of red wine was thrust into his hand when he arrived. Their conversation was thick with news of The Turk. The gladiator seemed to be a celebrity in these parts. Kidd eavesdropped on a passionate account about the previous day’s action given by a man to his friends. If the way the man described The Turk was to have been believed, the Ottoman gladiator was ten feet tall, strong as a bull, and impervious to harm. There had been plenty of high drama too. Several determined challengers had lost their lives on the Turk’s sword when they refused to concede defeat. However, the great gladiator’s prowess was not deterring the local men from testing their strength against him. The prize purse was worth the risk of injury or death.
While Kidd sipped his wine, an idea sprang into his mind. Elite gladiators were educated in more ways than weapon-handling. The finest studied anatomy, and were schooled in etiquette and languages so that they might entertain noblemen with exciting tales at feasts. The Turk might be the most unlikely of translators, but he was a translator nonetheless.
Kidd had infiltrated more palaces and strongholds than he could recall, and had faced perilous odds to obtain access to noblemen and royalty. A mere gladiator would present little challenge. After all, there was no need to actually compete in the tournament or to face The Turk in combat. He could go to the arena and find The Turk, offering him Faruq’s sword as a gift. He only needed The Turk to read one word, nothing more. After the sword’s secret was revealed, it would hold no more value to him, and would be safer in the hands of a fearsome gladiator than the hands of a seeker of The Tears.
La Canea was a few hours travel by horse. There was ample time to meet The Turk and return before the Masala began the next leg of the journey. All going well, he would be able to set foot aboard the galley before anyone knew he had been gone. Satisfied with his plan, Kidd swallowed the contents of his cup and slapped it down on the serving bench.
Horses were scarce in the village and Kidd lacked the funds to make such an expensive purchase, so he arranged to travel by wagon with a group of locals also bound for the arena and the evening’s entertainment. He took a cramped seat and struck up a conversation with a young man named Thias, who was keen to test his strength against The Turk. The wagon quickly became alive with excited chatter. None of the other passengers were game enough to step onto the arena floor. They asked Thias endless questions, some sincere, some mocking. Kidd felt sorry for the young man, scarcely old enough to have a family of his own, but said nothing. He sat quietly and listened, carefully gleaning every useful scrap of information. The Turk had emerged from the heart of the Ottoman Empire to demonstrate the strength of his people to the European nations. It was said he had come to continue the age-long struggle between Muslims and Christians, but Kidd suspected it was because blood-sports were popular and turned a good profit. Still, the legend would fuel the emotions of participants and spectators alike. The Turk was yet to be defeated in single combat. Kidd wondered if this event would attract pie-sellers, ale merchants, and vendors of commemorative trinkets as the games he’d attended in London many years ago had done.
The wagon trundled around hills and through green valleys until the city port of La Canea appeared over the treetops. Kidd shielded his eyes to take the position of the sun. The afternoon was still young. There was time to execute his plan before the games began.
The Venetian influence in Crete was considerable. They had constructed great walls around the city, to make it a safe haven for their ships, and a difficult target for their enemies. Kidd noted many different flags fluttering atop the masts of the ships berthed in the harbour. Thankfully there was no sign of La Fortresse, or of any flag bearing the St George Cross of England. Nor was the Cross of Burgundy flown by the Spanish navy to be seen. The cart trundled though streets with houses built up against each other, sometimes two stories high. Everywhere someone seemed to be selling something, from fresh fruit and vegetables to jars of exotic spices. Further back from the city walls, the streets widened and the cart’s passengers caught sight of the arena, a modest structure, built on the bones of an ancient Greek amphitheatre. A large crowd had gathered at the gates.
“Last night of the games,” said Thias. “It’ll be a full house.”
Kidd disembarked. “Good luck, and don’t throw your life away for a few coins.”
Thias grinned. “Oh, it’s more than a few coins.”
Kidd felt dismayed to see the gold-lust in his eyes. It made men take foolish risks. The young man was about to learn this lesson harshly, if he lived at all. Kidd joined the queue, which was taking a painfully-long time to reach the gate. He noticed a much shorter line and decided to join it before he baked in the afternoon heat. A stocky man stood at the gate, not collecting copper coins, but screening the men who fancied their chances against The Turk. He turned most away, especially those who looked old or sickly, but Thias was accepted. He whooped with joy and flung his arms into the air as they led him inside.
Kidd came to the front of the line. The stocky man was balding, missing half his teeth and bore more scars than any man Kidd had ever seen. It was a wonder he had managed to live so long. Closer inspection revealed the reason. He was well muscled and fit for his age, a gladiator that had lived to earn his retirement.
“Name?” he barked.
While Kidd spoke Greek fluently, he knew he carried an accent. “John English.”
The man prodded Kidd with a stubby finger and cast an eye over the entire length of his body. “You’ll do nicely. The purse is a hundred gold florins if The Turk admits defeat or a thousand if you kill him. Of course, he’s always up for a fight to the death.” He winked. “Now’s the chance to change your mind if you’re scared. There’s no shame in walking away.”
“I only want to see The Turk,” Kidd insisted. “I have a gift to deliver. I’m not here for the bouts.”
The stocky man laughed so long and hard Kidd felt rather embarrassed. “There are only two ways to meet The Turk, in battle, or in bed.” He ran his hands over his chest as if he were a buxom woman. “And you ain’t the right shape for the latter.”
“It’s a very important gift from Philip of Spain. I need only a few minutes.”
“I don’t care if you’re the bloody Holy Roman Emperor himself. Nobody gains admittance to The Turk before a fight. Do I look stupid?”
Kidd considered his options quickly. “How much is the prize purse?”
“A hundred if he admits defeat or a thousand if you’re lucky enough to kill him.”
No wonder so many men fancied their arm against the Ottoman champio
n. It was a small fortune. The smallest chance of victory could mean a life free from poverty. He couldn’t deny he was tempted. The money would fund the journey to Beirut and back, and pay Harissa and her crew for all the trouble he had brought upon them.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will fight The Turk.”
A breathy and sinister chuckle escaped the stocky man’s lips. “Good luck.”
Kidd was ushered inside the walls where he was greeted at once by four armoured guards and led to a small holding chamber. He’d patrolled many an arena while guarding King Henry at bear-baiting matches, and it felt peculiar to be on the wrong side of the bars. From here, the only way out was through an iron gate and onto the arena floor.
The swelling crowd was aroused by the occasion, as was a large black bull in the pit. Wild-eyed, it snorted and stamped its hoof at the taunting flagmen. Although Kidd was no stranger to blood-sports, he had never witnessed a bull fight. He became fascinated by the ritualistic nature of the event. The bull had no chance against the matador and his armed attendants. Perhaps the same was true for any challenger who dared to face The Turk.
He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of rattling keys. A gaunt man with greasy grey hair slithered past the guards. He wore a ruff, puffed velvet trousers, and a prominent codpiece. Kidd knew by the air of self-importance that surrounded the man that he wasn’t one of the performers, more likely the manager of the establishment.
“John English?”
“Yes?”
“The Turk will fight up to three opponents this evening. You will be the second. I am uncertain when you will be called. The length of each bout is determined either by the challenger’s survival skills, or whether The Turk is in a playful mood or not. You may inspect the weapons provided, or we can bring you food and drink.” A lopsided grin formed in the corner of his mouth. “Most treat it as their last meal, but I wouldn’t recommend you wash the food down with any wine. You’ll need to keep your wits about you.”
“Thank you, I’m not hungry.”
The manager presented Kidd with a document and a stick of chalk. “You’ll need to sign this too.”
Kidd scanned the page at a glance. It was some kind of contract exonerating the organisers from any responsibility for the outcome of the match. “I can’t read,” he said innocently.
“It’s just a formality,” the manager replied, “regarding the size of the prize purse.”
Kidd accepted the chalk and drew a cross on the page where the manager indicated.
“Choose your weapon carefully. Oh... is there anyone we should contact for your funeral arrangements, or would you prefer the common grave?”
Kidd removed his coat and tossed it into the manager’s arms. “Just hold my coat. If I don’t get it back when I’m finished with The Turk, I’ll come looking for you.”
The sneer vanished from the manager’s face and he fumbled with the gate latch in his eagerness to depart.
Kidd stretched his shoulders and arms and settled down on a long wooden bench to wait his turn. He removed the sword from his belt and took his time to clip the medallion in place before resting the blade at his side. He closed his eyes and meditated, hearing only distant cheers as the games continued.
It was late afternoon by the time The Turk appeared for the first of his three battles. Kidd was drawn back from his meditation as The Turk took the arena floor. The crowd had swelled to capacity and unleashed a mighty roar of approval for the Ottoman champion.
Kidd chanced a look at his opponent through the gaps in the bars, but there was little to see. When he caught a glimpse he was almost disappointed. The Turk was short, dressed in black, with a kerchief and a turban. Only his eyes could be seen. He carried two short scimitars as weapons, not much more than long knives.
Kidd cringed. The first of The Turk’s opponents was Thias. The young man had chosen a hand-and-a-half sword and a heavy breastplate. He wouldn’t last long.
Kidd began to understand why The Turk was so difficult to defeat. He ran his eye over the weapons available to the challengers. There was a halberd, a trident, or a heavy three-headed flail. The choice of armour was limited to various pieces of plate-mail, and a wooden shield that was more a burden than any kind of defence. The odds of victory were stacked in The Turk’s favour if challengers were forced to take up weighty weapons and armour against an experienced and sure-footed opponent.
Thias made a fair effort to defend himself from The Turk’s flashing blades, but soon attendants were called to remove his body. The crowd roared, satisfied with spilt blood for the price of admission. Poor Thias. The call of gold had been stronger than sense.
An intermission followed. It was an opportunity for to The Turk to rest, and for vendors to sell overpriced refreshments to the hungry and thirsty crowd.
Two men unlocked the gate and allowed Kidd to enter the arena. “Too late to go home and weep in ya momma’s lap now,” said the first.
The second smirked. “Yeah, The Turk is in a killing mood tonight.”
Every effort was being made to demoralise the challengers. Those who minded the betting books needed The Turk to win. Kidd picked up Faruq’s blade, flexed his shoulders, and marched onto the arena floor.
The noise from the audience was deafening, but it fell to a murmur when the announcer raised his hands. He was dressed in voluminous garments, and had a high-pitched voice that carried into the crowd. “Citizens of Crete, I give you the Ottoman Empire’s undefeated champion, The Turk!” There was thunderous applause. “And now the next challenger,” he called as the clapping subsided, “a man far from home. I give you John English from the green hills of England!” The onlookers drew a breath and raised a cheer. The anticipation was palpable.
Kidd stepped up to meet his opponent and eyed him across the dusty ground. The Turk didn’t appear to be an overly-large or powerful man. He was lithe and graceful, and moved with the precision of a cat stalking a mouse. His robes were close fitting, black to hide blood should he receive a wound, and made of light cotton to keep him cool. It was the costume of a mysterious and intimidating professional warrior.
“Are both opponents clear about the terms of the match?” cried the announcer.
The Turk nodded. He wasted no energy on flamboyant displays of skill.
Kidd followed suit. The crowd roared with appreciation. He raised his sword aloft to thank them. The announcer withdrew to the fringes of the amphitheatre. “Let the contest begin!”
The applause echoed in Kidd’s ears like thunder. The Turk was impressed with the audience’s enthusiasm for this fight and nodded his head respectfully. Kidd repeated the gesture. The crowd fell silent when The Turk drew both scimitars from his belt. He circled left, each foot landing with a dancer’s precision.
Kidd marched towards The Turk to meet him face to face. He stopped just beyond the reach of the flashing blades. “I have no desire to kill you. I will spare your life if you perform one task for me.”
The Turk laughed. “You are brave, but a fool if you think I can be intimidated.” His accent was thick, but he spoke with the clarity of an educated man. “It is you who will die today.” The scimitars spiralled in his hands.
Kidd thrust Faruq’s sword into the earth so that it stood like a cross. “It wasn’t intended to be a threat. I don’t doubt your skill as a fighter, but I doubt you’ve ever fought a man like me. All I require is your help.”
The Turk stood unmoving, confused by the request and the sight of his opponent surrendering his weapon. The crowd held its collective breath.
“Very well, English,” he said finally. “I accept the terms, but you are a fool. Take up your weapon and I will be merciful.”
Kidd flexed his hands. “I have no need of it.” He considered taking off his leather gloves, but quickly decided against it. After all, there were several thousand people watching, and he was memorable with his steel forearms. He noted the way The Turk’s hands eased into a perfect grip on the hilts of
his scimitars, strong in the fingers, loose in the wrists and elbows. The bout began with a few testing swings. Kidd dodged them, but refrained from using his arms to block the blows. The crowd found its voice with the onset of the action, roaring in surges with each engagement.
The Turk lowered his guard. “Why you have no weapon, English? You wish to die quickly?”
Kidd fired a lightning-fast jab at The Turk’s jaw. Despite catching his opponent by surprise, the connection was not as solid as he would have liked. The Turk’s eyes watered and he retreated a few paces. The rigged bouts and clumsy opponents had dulled The Turk’s battle wariness. He charged again before The Turk had the opportunity to regain his composure and knocked a scimitar from his hand with a forearm sweep.
The Turk recovered from the shock of the attack and held Kidd at bay with sweeping strokes. The crowd roared, delighted the champion had found a worthy challenger. The Turk wasn’t about to disappoint them either. He swapped the remaining scimitar between each hand to keep Kidd off-balance.
Kidd took the measure of his opponent again. He’d dealt The Turk a more serious blow than expected. The Ottoman champion wasn’t a truly ambidextrous swordsman. He favoured his left hand, which now hurt, and appeared uncomfortable with the sword in his right.
Kidd spread his arms wide, inviting The Turk to attack, and was rewarded with an excited cheer. He picked up the fallen scimitar, held it up to the audience, and threw it far from reach. He earned a thunderous round of applause for the display, and the crowd began to chant, “Fight! Fight!”
The Turk settled his weapon in his left hand, regained his composure, and altered his weight and posture to fight in a traditional one-handed style. He rotated his scimitar in a figure eight about his body, the blade making a whirring sound as it cut through the air. The crowd rose to their feet, the ovation deafening. The Turk advanced, driving Kidd backwards. He attacked determinedly.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 19
