Kidd ducked, bobbed, and wove. The Turk’s blade never missed him by more than a whisker. The boundary wall loomed and he realised he was being driven into a corner. After a few more steps, his back met stone. The crowd cheered with delight. His predicament had all the makings of an execution. The Turk continued his assault with bone-rattling blows as sword struck stone. Kidd knew he couldn’t avoid the blade much longer. The Turk sliced deep into his leg above the knee. He felt the flow of hot blood and pressed a hand instinctively over the wound. In doing so, he extended his neck forward, a target for The Turk to sever his head. Several thousand voices gasped and cheered.
The Turk stepped forward to end the fight. “Surrender, English!” He played to the audience, taking his scimitar in both hands and raising it high above his head, poised to deliver the death blow.
“No.”
The blade came down filled with power. Kidd rocked backwards, narrowly avoiding the hacking blow. He threw his entire bodyweight upwards, leading with his fist. The impact knocked The Turk off his feet, and he landed sprawling in the pale dust. Kidd leapt on his opponent and punched him in the jaw. The Turk’s eyeballs rolled, but he refused to be knocked out. He aimed his scimitar at Kidd’s head. There was no way for Kidd to evade the blow while on his knees. He had no choice but to reveal his secret. He caught the blade above the cross-guard, twisted it out of his opponent’s grasp, and tossed it away. It rang with a shrill tone as it hit stone.
The Turk struggled, but without a weapon he was no match for Kidd. After a third blow he collapsed onto the sand puffing hard. “I surrender, English. Take your money!”
Kidd stood over his opponent and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He raised a hand in victory. The crowd applauded half-heartedly, uncertain what had happened and whether it was appropriate to cheer if the champion was defeated. He dragged The Turk across the arena floor to the spot where Faruq’s blade stood in the sand. He threw The Turk down and grasped the handle of the sword, pulling it free. He raised it to the crowd, allowing the sunlight to glitter across the edges before he rested the point a fraction of an inch from The Turk’s jugular.
“Please, please,” begged The Turk, “you promised to spare me!”
Kidd pressed the tip into The Turk’s throat. “I’ve changed my mind. In return for my sparing your life you must now perform two tasks, or you’ll be seeing me again.”
The Turk groaned. “Anything...”
“First,” said Kidd, “no more murdering defenceless villagers! You killed a young man today that didn’t deserve to die. He was no match for you.”
“And what else?”
Kidd withdrew the sword and held the hilt up to The Turk’s face. “Tell me what this word says.”
The Turk’s eyes flashed. “It is a name.”
“What name?” Kidd shook him for good measure and the benefit of the audience.
The Turk spoke the name, rolling the syllables through his mouth.
Kidd tried to repeat the name, but it was difficult to pronounce. “Spell it in English,” he growled.
“S-U-L-A-Y-M-A-N.”
Kidd took a sharp breath. He could not imagine a worse man in all the world who could have taken The Tears from Lawrence.
~ Chapter 26 ~
THE MYSTERIOUS JOHN ENGLISH
The port of La Canea, Crete, in the Venetian Republic
Kidd had no time to consider the implications of the revelation of the name. The bout was done and the arena administrators were not about to lose their prize fighter. Four burly men seized Kidd, and dragged him away from the melee to a holding cell under the auditorium. They shackled him by the wrist to a wooden post next to a stack of coffins. He spared a thought for Thias, lying cold in one of the many wooden boxes and hoped The Turk would be true to his promise.
“Need a doctor for ya leg?” asked one of the guards.
“No thanks.” Vllen’s lectures on the importance of hygiene had saved his life once and he wasn’t about to allow anyone to tend to his wound without strong alcohol, salt water, and boiled bandages. He tore the fabric of his breeches off at the knees and made a bandage and tourniquet. The dressing stemmed the flow of blood. He’d finished knotting the fabric around his thigh when his coat was returned by the manager with the oversized codpiece. It had been cleaned and mended. “Oi, where’s my money?” he demanded. “And why am I being held like a prisoner?”
“It’s for your own protection,” the manager stammered. “Lucretius, the master of the games, is arranging your winnings.” He scampered away before Kidd could ask more questions.
Kidd draped his coat across his shoulders. His sweaty shirt clung to his body, cold now and damp. He tested the shackle. It was highly inconvenient. He certainly hadn’t anticipated being held and couldn’t afford to be detained. There had been a commotion when The Turk bowed his head in defeat, and a great deal of money would change hands among those gambling on the outcome. The same would be true for the promoters who had posted the prize purse. One hundred gold florins was a small fortune, and they would not part with it gladly.
The money was of little consequence. The Tears of Christ were within his grasp. After all the trials he had faced, this last would be the most dangerous, but oddly, he felt relieved. “What’s the delay?” he shouted.
The only response was a disgruntled glance from one of the guards stationed outside the cell. Kidd began to suspect they had no intention of awarding him the money or of letting him go. He shook the shackle binding his wrist to the post. It would take some effort to break. The battle with the Turk and blood loss had taken a toll on his body. After another hour he felt decidedly weak.
Eventually, the cell was opened to admit a scrawny figure of a man with greasy black hair and far too much jewellery. “I am Lucretius, the Master of the Games. You are somewhat of an enigma, John English.” Lucretius had a hooked Roman nose, but spoke with a heavy Greek accent. He dropped a suede bag tied with a drawstring into Kidd’s outstretched hand. It was heavy with gold. “I’d say you’re no amateur fighter.” A broad smile spread across his face and he tucked his chin into his neck in an unnerving manner.
Kidd shrugged. “I’ve been in the odd tussle.”
“Indeed. I find it curious that an Englishman with such fighting skills should be so far from home. In fact, I’ve heard a rumour that the mercenary Iron William Kidd has been seen in this part of the world.”
Kidd looked up with an excited expression on his face. “Really? He’s famous at home. One of the best swordsmen alive they say. I should dearly like to see him fight.”
Lucretius frowned. “Whoever you are, Mr English, many people have been upset by the outcome of this match. A great deal of money has been lost. As a result, we have elected to detain you.” The words caught in Lucretius’ throat and his voice deepened an octave. “For your protection, of course!”
Kidd wasn’t fooled by the lie.
Lucretius smiled again and tilted his head in the other direction. “Count your gold to make sure it’s all there. We’ll send you on your way after nightfall. Congratulations on your victory today.”
Kidd watched the last flick of Lucretius’ robe disappear through the gate, and waited for the bolt to cease to ring before he tested his bonds. While a lock-pick would have been useful, he knew he was beyond such a delicate task these days. However, metal hands had some advantages. He inserted the broad blade of Faruq’s sword into the cuff and twisted hard without fear of lacerating his wrist. Metal screeched against metal, the rivet snapped, and the cuff came apart. The sound drew the attention of the guards, so Kidd quickly emptied the contents of his purse onto the stone. “What comes after ten?” he asked, adopting a foolish expression. “I never was good at counting.”
“Count ya gold in lots of ten,” one said, “and ya should have ten piles at the end. Take ya time.”
Kidd started sorting the coins into piles, appearing to count carefully. There were nine steps to the gate, two guards posted, and each h
ad three observable weaknesses in his armour. Fighting his way out would be very hard indeed. Fleeing into the arena was out of the question. There was no way to climb the high wall. His best option was to lie down and die as they wished him to. He felt tired anyway. Time passed and he checked the coins were gold one by one by marking them with his teeth. Eventually the wound in his leg got the better of him. He tucked the purse into his coat and lay down on the hard floor to sleep.
* * *
Some hours later, the guards opened the gate to allow a gravedigger to collect the coffins. They paused to step over an unconscious man. He had been shackled to a post, but had somehow snapped the restraint. The gravedigger passed comment about the nasty wound in his leg. A great deal of blood had flowed from the cut and formed a large black puddle on the stone. An old sword lay across his lap, the one the challenger had carried into the arena.
The gravedigger saw a flash of gold from the hilt and decided to relieve the man of his valuable weapon. It was no different from picking a gold filling from a tooth or collecting a forgotten earring. He gave it no thought. After all, with that kind of injury the man would be lucky to survive the night. The gravedigger knew he would have to return in the morning to pack the man’s body into a coffin anyway.
The guards helped the gravedigger collect the coffins and stack them onto an old cart waiting outside the arena gates. It was the true end of the games, but not one the crowds cared to watch. That done, the gravedigger set off to a burial pit a mile out of the city. One of the rear wheels of his cart was slightly larger than the other and it cart rocked up and down along the road, but he found the motion soothing. The pit was tucked away in a green valley amid the foothills, far from places people chose to walk. The bodies were cast into the deep grave and covered with lime. He’d made the trip every day since the games had started. It still puzzled him that nobody ever came to claim these brave young men. Poor souls.
The gravedigger heard a horrible screech from the rear of the wagon as the lid of a coffin burst free. One of the dead men sat up, stretched, yawned and said, “I feel better now.”
The gravedigger struggled to draw breath as the dead man reached out and took the sword.
“That belongs to me.”
Such was the gravedigger’s fear that he clutched his chest, and crossed himself before he fainted.
* * *
Iron William Kidd jumped from the still moving cart and saluted the unconscious gravedigger. “Thanks for the ride!” Seconds later he disappeared into the bushes and was gone. He paused only to strap the bandage tighter around his leg. When he was satisfied he was far enough from the road, he stopped to rest in a patch of dense shrubs. The air was crisp and cool after sunset, so he employed the Damascus blade to cut branches thick with leaves and made a bed.
Kidd thought of Thias as he covered himself with foliage. First the young man had been slain mercilessly by The Turk, and now he was shackled to a post in Kidd’s place. He deserved a burial at the very least.
Kidd closed his eyes, but was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep for any length of time. By sunrise he was stiff and sore, but his leg was no worse. He immediately began the trek back to La Canea. The grass was green and lush underfoot, and helped to ease the discomfort of his wound. After a few hours, he passed through the city gates and joined the people milling about in the morning bazaar.
The only topic on everyone’s lips was the appearance of the mysterious John English and how he had given The Turk his first defeat. Kidd decided it was best not to linger. He purchased a skin of water, and a loaf of crusty bread filled with soft cheese and cured pork. It made a satisfying meal on his wagon trip back to the village where the Masala was berthed. He didn’t haggle over the fare.
Kidd wasted no time in finding Harissa. She was sitting on the pier deep in conversation with Kemal. They both had their breeches rolled up and their feet in the water. “Ah, William, where did you disappear to?” she asked as he sat down.
“Oh, I’ve been enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet.” He dropped the prize purse in her hand.
Surprised by the weight, she almost dropped it. She opened the purse and fingered the coins.
“Ninety-nine florins. I had to part with one. I hope it is sufficient payment for my passage to Beirut and for your losses.”
She nodded. “Aye, thank you. It is more than enough.” She handed Kemal the purse with instructions to purchase supplies and as many goods as he could find to trade. Without unrolling his breeches, the First Mate pocketed the gold and loped off to the township.
“Are you up for a celebratory drink?”
“Why?”
“For whatever you did to earn so much gold,” she replied.
“I’d rather return to the ship.”
“Then you might have to row. My privilege as a woman.”
They released the moorings and he held out his hand to help her aboard the rowing boat, even though he knew she didn’t need assistance. She accepted his arm and stepped over the prow with grace. They rowed back to the Masala in silence, watching the waves glitter deep gold in the early afternoon sun.
Once aboard, they parted company. Kidd found an empty bunk and removed the cloth from his leg to examine his wound. The Turk kept his scimitars sharp and the cut was clean. It would heal well. He washed bandages in salt water and redressed his leg. Fatigue caught up with him and he lay down, falling asleep immediately.
Kemal returned a few hours after dawn with news that he had secured supplies and goods to trade at La Canea. He’d scouted the port the previous evening for enemy ships and reported it was safe to make harbour. The Masala cruised around the coast to collect the cargo. Kidd kept well out of sight.
An hour later the Masala was secured at La Canea wharf and the crew formed a chain gang to bring the consignment aboard. A wagon waited with barrels of salt, a bale of Chinese silk, and a small box of ivory. Another followed with barrels of rum, hard bread, cheese, salted pork and dried fruit.
“The salt will buy us fresh water and supplies on the way to Beirut,” said Harissa. “If I can find the right buyer for the silk, we’ll make a tidy profit. At Beirut, we can sell the ivory in pieces and treble the price we paid for it.”
“You could make more with slave beads,” said Kidd. The intricate Venetian glass was abundant throughout the marketplace and well-priced.
“We don’t deal in slaves, nor will we use the currency of slavers! I need no lash to run my ship. Every man may come and go as he pleases. They all know the price of disobedience is expulsion.”
Kidd caught the chill note in her voice and decided not to pursue the subject further.
With all hands working to carry the barrels and bales, the cargo was quickly loaded. There was only one topic of conversation between the La Canea traders and the crew, the astounding events at the last night of the games. The story had grown in the telling and was riddled with conjecture.
“I guess that explains where the gold came from, eh William?” murmured Harissa. “Or should I call you ‘John English’ from now on?”
“William is fine.”
Harissa looked serious. “Inhumane men keep slaves, and amoral men steal the lives of innocents to line their pockets with gold. Whatever your name is, you are always welcome aboard my ship.”
~ Chapter 27 ~
SITTING OUT THE STORM
The island of Cyprus, Venetian Republic
Only one day out of Crete the Masala was swamped in an unseasonable storm. Strong winds and relentless rain bombarded the galley, tossing her about like a child’s toy. The wind howled in the heavens like an angry spirit, and the clouds were so thick, day was barely indistinguishable from night. Harissa was quick to order the sails to be taken down. Bundles of grey-white cloth lay across the deck. The oarsmen endured back-breaking work, hour after hour, just to keep the ship on her slow course.
As the days passed, Kidd experienced sea travel at its most grim. The unremitting storm drenched
every part of the ship. There was no sanctuary from seawater or rain, and nothing could be done to keep dry. In the chill of night his hands ached. Some mornings they were so stiff he could barely force them open.
One evening Flint perched on the end of Kidd’s cot, nursing a mug of rum with wet fingers. “It must be hubris. We can’t find our way out of the storm because someone has angered God by some act of pride,” he said with a mystical air. “This tempest will cling to the ship until we are truly humbled, or...”
Kidd had never cared for religion, but the idea disturbed him nevertheless. “Or what?”
“Or it might be the sailor’s curse. A woman aboard a ship makes the sea angry,” Flint concluded. He drowned the rum and settled down to sleep, shivering and sniffling.
Whatever the explanation, they were at the mercy of forces beyond their control. Kidd’s thoughts went to The Tears. What powers would be stirred in response to his touch? Jabez and Lawrence had both met an unpleasant end, willingly or otherwise. They had been more worthy keepers than he would be. He was just a man with a debt to pay. He snuffed his lantern, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Near dawn, Kidd was woken by Flint tugging at his arm. “Get up, Will. Reprieve at last!”
Tired and sore, Kidd followed Flint above decks. The endless grey wasteland of the storm was beginning to break up. Sunlight split the clouds in long shafts. There was a distant speck of land on the horizon.
“Cyprus,” said Flint. “We’re almost there. I always thought this was a hopeless quest, but now I think we have a chance. Yes, I can feel it in my bones.”
As the last of the bad weather passed overhead, headed north, they set down at the township of Famagusta, still within the territories of the Venetian Republic. Kemal led a trading expedition ashore. Kidd seized the opportunity to clean and oil his hands. After that chore was complete he found a tavern serving vegetable stew. He ordered a large bowl and relished every mouthful of his first hot meal in weeks. A mug of wine completed what felt like a kingly repast. Even more comforting was the prospect of a night’s sleep in a soft dry bed, which seemed like luxury at a small price.
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