by J A Deriu
“It was not an effort, Lord Commander, but I appreciate your gratitude.”
“More importantly, General, I wanted to hear your story.”
“My story, Lord Commander?”
“Yes, there are many stories of why you betrayed the sultan. But I wanted to hear your story.”
“Ah, I see. Hmm, where to begin?”
She narrowed her eyes to focus on him intently. He was a man who must have been used to immense command, the exaltation of a hero. He looked at her eyes and tightened his lips.
“I was born in the green countryside of the Ottoman province of Inglaterra. My family were farmers. I only remember the dirty hands and the color of my mother’s apron. The day the Janissaries came for me, I had fallen from an apple tree. I had a bruise on my forehead. Such a thing was looked for in the boys they took as a sign of the want to fight. The last I saw of my mother was her red apron standing in the cottage doorway.” He spoke without emotion. “I became a Janissary, and what you were before is quickly forgotten. I was enlisted to the barracks of the Bear-Hounds in Transylvania. It was a life I did not object to, I will admit. It is the life for a boy, playing Jereed and preparing for war. A boy becomes a man soon, and on becoming a man, I became a Corbaci to lead my own Orta. Battles are plenty in the empire, and I had seen many by the time the first hair grew on my chest. Rebellions are constant. I saw fighting from the ice of the north to the beaches of the Mediterranean. One time we even fought rogue Janissaries across Bavarian farmlands. They had grown homesick and wanted to settle and farm. That was one of the bloodiest. An example stone was set up. You would call it an execution block. The choppers worked until they could no longer lift their arms. The sultan, Shadow of God on Earth, was pleased. I was advanced to the barracks of Konstantinople. I became a general – some may even say, the favorite general. This is where the stories of my betrayal of the sultan would come from. I was not only a general in the Ottoman war machine – I was the favorite of the sultan. But I have not told why I betrayed him yet.”
“Continue, General. I will not interrupt you.”
“There was a bloody rebellion in the northern provinces. The empire is kept in place by equal part charity and brutality. This results in confusion for the sultan when people reject his charity, and confusion for the people when the sultan is brutal. We fought a year long vicious campaign along the Volga, finally defeating the rebels in the fortified city of Tver. The Ottoman army behaved as a victor. The Bazouks unleashed hell. I was jaded then. Long before the fortress walls of the Qing. I walked the streets as a common soldier, which has always been my way. I have never worn ribbons of command. I passed a slave market set up in the ruins, by the soldiers to auction the vanquished citizenry. I stopped to watch, remembering my own past. I saw the face of a girl. She wore red. I felt sorrow for her as the brutes haggled over her ownership. I stepped forward and paid the price. I was challenged with fists, but when I was identified as the general, they backed away. A Janissary does not keep slaves, so I took her as a servant. My only concern was her safety as Tver was burned to ashes. I returned with her to Konstantinople. We spoke little. She had beautiful eyes. She did errands for me. Sometimes to the Topkapi Palace. In one of these errands, her eyes were noticed by one of the sultan’s Viziers. This man presented her to the sultan. This could have had many fortunes. It had the most devilish. I was not to see her again. The sultan took her into his harem.” He paused. She nodded. “I had intended to marry her.” He lowered his head. “Perhaps that gives you an insight into where my mind was on the morning of the battle with the Templars.”
“Yes, it does. I thank you for it.”
“The sultan is as much my enemy as he is yours, Lord Commander.”
“What is your practice, General? I am talking in regards to the matter of God.”
“I was baptized a Christian. My family paid the Jizya. As a Janissary I joined the Bektashi Order.” He looked to see if she recognized the name. “We are a dervish sect. There are practices of shamanism, rituals for everything from eating to dancing. I could not enlighten you in regards to all the practices. Many of them you would call odd. There are those among the order that will state that no one exists but oneself.”
“But what of you? What are your practices?”
“I adhere to some, not others. I will not eat if there are utensils on a table. I will not look at a hare. I will wear the same shirt to battle. I will study the astrological symbols. I do not fear women.” He studied her again, his eyes rich with meaning. “And you, Lord Commander? My mother taught me that Christians were people of peace, the farthest possible from warlike.”
“She was right. Yet the Templars exist.” She grinned. “The original patron of the Order, Bernard of Clairvaux of the Cistercian Order, was against war. Vehemently against war. A Christian knight must not engage in war for war’s sake. Those that would do this, he considered soulless. He made an exception in his opposition to war, one that birthed the Templars, and that was war for self-defense. He allowed a Christian knight to fight sinners so that they would cease menacing others.” She paused. “You and your men will be invaluable for the conflict ahead. I will pray with you if you will pray with me.”
“I will, Lord Commander, and do not doubt the fidelity of the Bear-Hounds.”
They were silent for long moments.
“General, there is another matter,” she said. “In your experience you would have crossed the path of the guild of the assassins.”
“I have.”
“Do you know how to get the truth out of a captured assassin?”
His eyebrows lifted before he steadied his face. “There is a way.”
She nodded for him to explain.
“Convince him that he has died and that he is in paradise and so can speak freely.”
She questioned this with a furrowed brow.
“It can be done. What is needed is ample hashish and the most beautiful of women.”
Chapter Eight
He sat for a long while looking across the waters. The lights of the city played on the moving canvas. It was the lights of New Kons. The city was a ferry’s trip across the wide expanse of the murky harbor. They had reached it, not uneventfully, over a distance Jack had not thought possible. He could not believe that the whole world was not the distance they had traveled.
He was sitting on a weathered stool. The sleeve of a shirt touched the back of his head, wind blown, hanging from the clothesline that had been strung up from the chimney to a stick on the flat, open roof. He rested a foot on the ledge and looked at the immediate harbor. The massive bulk of a vessel of the Ottoman Navy could be made out in the dim moonlight. Pricks of light shone from its deck. Its ominous shape watched the shoreline. Another one could be seen in the background. The wind swept over his face and tossed his hair. It was a strange smell: industrial, oil, steel, mortar, and of the sea. He waited for Gaspar, thinking of New Kons and if there was a life for him in its immensity, as there was said to be in the countless stories, books, songs, poems. It was described as the magnet for both the angels and devils of the universe.
Gaspar moved across the rooftop with typically assured steps. He stood next to Jack without making a sound, rubbed his chin, and moved his eyes across the scene. “Is it bigger than you thought?”
“Very much. I thought there could be nothing bigger than Baltimore.”
“Baltimore is only a spot compared to this.”
“What do all these people do?”
“What they do is endless. But you will learn.”
“How did this come to be like this?” Jack lifted his hand to brush over the vast picture.
“It is many things. The location. The rivers. Humanity. I will teach you.”
The first glow of morning appeared on the horizon. “Let’s go,” Gaspar said. “Our passes are only good for daylight.” Moving down the staircase, they
looked into the one-room apartment and saw Odo and Hoston sleeping on the floor. Amblard was on the couch with the cat and the dog nestled against his body for warmth. The cat looked up, stretched its paws, and then settled back into its tight ball.
They walked through the dim portside streets. Around them activity was stirring. A lorry was being unloaded. The smell of baking bread. Jack recalled the long journey from the wilderness. At times, the provinces were desolate. They had passed deserted factories, with cranes like skeletons, abandoned roads, buildings that looked like decaying corpses … only woodchucks scurried in the ruins. Their path had been uncommon by necessity. They had found life in little villages, not staying for long to avoid the chance of Ghouls. The villages were not too different from those of the wilderness. Stone and timber with chimneys, some even home to a church. The Templars looked longingly at the cross but would not venture inside. Odo cooked what was caught, mostly rabbits, but once a wild turkey trapped by Amblard, or what they exchanged for coins in villages, mostly turnips – once a leg of beef that Odo cooked slowly over a fire and garnished with herbs picked from the woods. The Templars were always chivalrous and did not leave a village without repairing a fence, carrying wood to a fire, or patching a leak. The wolves seemed to follow them on the journey. They were not seen again, but heard howling at night, and once so loud and for so long it was said that they were celebrating. Once they reached the outskirts of the city, the wolves were not heard, and the Templars walked far apart, as if they were unknown to each other.
Jack had not imagined that there was so much difference in people. He had read of them in books, yet from his observations as he traveled, he had begun to understand the limitations of his imagination. Crammed on the ferry within touching distance was a man with skin of golden luster wearing silks that dazzled the eye and a lady with a black veil pulled across her mouth with only her weary eyes visible. Next to her was a bareheaded Christian girl with her hair moving from the sea air and her Saint Christopher medal around her neck. Every second man wore a fez, and Jack felt his bare head. The talk was tired and whispered. Most eyes were on the dense waters, shadowed by the overcast sky and the gray city ahead. The eyes lingered on the hawklike bow of an Ottoman battleship. Jack leaned closer to Gaspar. “What language do they speak in the city?”
“All of them.” He smirked. “Turk is the official language, as it is in all corners of the empire, but you will find all types of words spoken. We will be well served by our English in the streets we visit. I can speak some Turk if needed.”
At the terminal Gaspar showed the brown-uniformed Zaptie security men their papers. He did not tell Jack where he had gotten them from. The policeman looked at the papers with no interest, and they streamed into the city with the masses spilling from the terminal to covered passageways. “You have been here before?” Jack said to Gaspar.
“Twice. Both times for longer than a day. Stay close. It is easy to get lost.”
Jack could no longer see the city. They walked through a tunnel, passing dirty, stained-tiled walls. The sounds of machines rumbled. “What is this?”
“It is called the underground. There are trains. They will take us uptown where we need to go.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking over a black void. He could smell what the man next to him had eaten for breakfast. A light hurtled from the tunnel. In its beam he could see all of the cables, pipes, and steel that made the underground world. They packed inside, and the train jolted with movement. He balanced so as not to fall, grabbing Gaspar and a handhold. The train sped, stopped, and jerked back to movement. Gaspar looked assured in the frenzy of movement. He watched out of the window, saw where he wanted them to go, and tugged Jack’s arm so that they moved with a herd of bodies getting off the stopped train and upward over a series of steps. They stepped onto a city path and pulled away from the flow of pedestrians to check where they were.
“Welcome to New Konstantinople,” Gaspar said.
There were high buildings above, so high that Jack could not see where they ended. Lower, there were boards for colorful advertising and the flags of the empire. The air was thick with the reek of activity. The street was crammed full of motor vehicles and people dodging them. Hundreds of horns sounded like caged animals. Shouts from street vendors joined the racket. Gaspar shoved away a peddler who had thrust a packet of peanuts in front of them.
“In these streets do not stop for anyone, do not buy anything from anyone, do not make eye contact, and keep your hand on your wallet.”
Jack nodded.
Gaspar clasped his shoulder. “Look like you belong. Stay close to me. We will be meeting someone, but do not say anything.”
Jack thought the city was ugly and beautiful. They passed ornate, palacelike buildings guarded by stone lions and wide steps. And on those steps wretched people dressed in rags with dirty, soured faces outstretched weak arms for a coin.
They waited for a Zaptie to allow a road to be crossed. He yelled and blew a whistle at those who ignored him. Gaspar moved his mouth close to Jack’s ear. “If asked, your name is Landry. In this business we are in, you must have more than one name. Your papers have that name, Landry.”
Jack nodded again.
“Good. Let’s get our hair cut then.” Gaspar slapped Jack on the back.
They moved from the thoroughfare to narrower streets where only one motor vehicle could pass. The sidewalk was darkened by awnings, and the smell of tobacco dominated. A spurt of steam shot up in front of them as if ejected from the subterranean. They turned a corner into an alleyway. Compact shops and the back of restaurants were on either side.
The shop had a lamp outside that flickered from red to blue, a large window, and walls covered with pictures, many of the heads of good-looking men and their stylish haircuts, but also much else – of buildings, sports teams, and landscapes. The barber sat on his chair reading a newspaper. He threw it down when he saw Gaspar and sprang out of the chair, holding his arms out. “My old friend, Mister John Smith.”
Gaspar laughed and gripped both hands of the barber’s. “Roberto.” He lifted a hand to clutch it behind the neck of the barber. “The Lord and his saints have brought us together again.”
The barber crossed himself with the sign of the cross and looked at Jack.
“This is Landry,” Gaspar said. “He is one of us, an initiate Templar.”
“We can speak freely. Those wanting a haircut are either at work or still in bed at this time.” The barber tightened his embrace of Gaspar. “You have heard. No doubt you have. A time for great joy. A Templar army defeated the Ottomans in the Orient.”
“I have heard, and we have prayed each night our gratitude. We crossed much recounting of the events on our journey and listened intently each time. It was a battle group from New Europa. They were vastly outnumbered, but the angels were with them. I am surprised you have this news.”
“It is not to be found in the newspapers, but news like this is impossible to stifle.” His smile continued, and he grabbed Jack’s hand to shake it vigorously. “Welcome, my friend, to New Kons.”
“Cut the boy’s hair first,” Gaspar said. “Whatever is in fashion.” He picked up the newspaper and scanned over it. “I see the Leopards are still losing.”
“Some things do not change, my friend. Sit down, sit down.” Roberto beckoned to Jack. “You have a fine head of hair, thick.” He rubbed Jack’s hair between his fingers.
Jack sat on the warm leather of the barber’s chair and in the mirror observed the barber studying his equipment laid out on a bench. He was a man who looked not far from old age but carefree enough to be successfully staving it away. His hair was shiny black. He had a permanent-looking smile on his face and a slender body that moved with ease around Jack to contemplate his head from different angles with scissors busily clicking in his fingers.
Gaspar watched, his hand feeling his chin. �
�Landry, barbers know all, particularly this one.” He looked at the barber. “We are seeking information, Roberto, for a matter, or person, that concerns the boy.”
“Hmm.”
“Landry is from the wilderness.”
“I thought so. His hair has a luster, even though it has not been washed. But I am sorry to hear. The governor is desperate. There has been carnage in the wilderness.”
“That there has been. We can say that as witnesses.”
“You will see the streets. They are full of beggars and those that have no bed. It is not common knowledge, but I have observed these matters for long enough to know that the Ottomans are broke. They have no coin for the welfare. They will not admit to it. That is not their way. Instead the poor become destitute, and the widows and children starve. They will not levy taxes, as who would pay them, other than the Christians and Jewish? They seek plunder in the wilderness as they have in the past, but I have heard that the seasons have been poor and the wilderness provided scant for the Ottomans. But enough of this. I could talk all day. Rare is the opportunity to speak to the like minded. What is the boy’s business?” The barber started carefully snipping at Jack’s hair.
“We are looking for a girl. She was taken by soldiers of the governor,” Gaspar said.
Roberto stopped cutting. “Hmm, there could be a thousand taken in the one incursion.”
“The boy was to protect her. He has vowed to return her to the wilderness and freedom.”
“Yes, that is noble.” Roberto looked at Jack and then back to Gaspar. “A girl can be sold at a hundred slave markets.”
“Others said they would bring her here,” Jack said.
“It cannot be certain, Landry,” Roberto said. “How old is she?”
“I don’t know – thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”
“Ah, what color is her hair and skin?
“Her hair is the color of straw, her skin like milk.”
