The Tournament (8 page)

Mr Ascham shrugged sadly. ‘I have found that it is rarely useful to question people on the practices of their faiths. What people do in the name of religion is not necessarily religious. It often has baser reasons behind it.’

At this point we rounded a bend and emerged on a wide square, and there before us sat the immense domed building I had glimpsed earlier through the haze.

It lorded over all before it like a king on his throne: the great cathedral to holy wisdom. Known to the Turks as the Ayasofya, in Latin as the Sancta Sophia, and to Europeans as the Hagia Sophia, it was Isidore of Miletus’s masterpiece.

From a squat, square, fortress-like base, the stupendous building soared heavenward in a sequence of ever-rising domes buttressed by gargantuan pillars and supports, until it reached the largest hemisphere of them all, the breathtaking main dome that surmounted the structure.

This main dome—my teacher informed me with even more than his usual enthusiasm—was nothing less than the greatest feat of engineering in the whole world, all the more so for having been built in the sixth century. The dome itself was fully one hundred feet across, spanning the Hagia’s vast nave in one giant leap, soaring an incredible two hundred feet above the basilica’s floor.

‘Until recently, no other cathedral in Christendom has come close to it in size and ingenuity of design,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘It is as if the knowledge that built it was lost for a millennium and has only recently been rediscovered. Originally it was built as a Christian church, but with the taking of Constantinople by the Moslems in 1453, it was converted to a mosque. Note the minaret alongside it is built with more modern bricks.’ He indicated the slim red-brick spire constructed beside the main structure. ‘Having said that, despite its colossal size and ingenious construction, because of its Christian origins, many Moslems of this city feel indifferent toward the Hagia Sophia and refuse to worship in it.’

I did not feel indifferent toward it. I gazed up at it in absolute wonder, humbled by its history, majesty and immensity.

We pressed on, moving around the Hagia Sophia toward the Sultan’s palace, which occupied the very tip of the peninsula.

I felt like I was walking into a fabulous and exotic world. England, with its grey skies, muddy streets, feuding dukes and disputed successions, seemed completely and wholly backward compared to this.

Upon seeing Constantinople, I could see why my teacher had brought me here.

PASSING THE MIGHTY HAGIA SOPHIA
, we arrived at the Sultan’s palace.

Mounted on a high promontory overlooking the Sea of Marmara to the south and the Bosphorus Strait to the east, it claimed the most strategic and commanding position in the city. A striking tower rose from within its own set of high stone walls.

‘That tower is the
Adalet Kulesi
, the Tower of Justice,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘The Moslems pride themselves on being a just and fair people.’

‘Are they?’

Mr Ascham cocked his head. ‘Some say they are
overly
zealous in their pursuit of justice. Thieves have their hands cut off. Adulterers are stoned. Do
you
think this is just?’

I pondered this. ‘Crimes must be punished so that order is maintained.’

‘True. But shouldn’t a punishment be commensurate with the crime?’ my teacher said. ‘If we executed every adulterer in England, the population would be reduced by half.’

‘We hang thieves in England,’ I said. ‘Here they only lose a hand. Harsh, swift punishments make for secure streets.’

‘They certainly do,’ Mr Ascham said, just as we passed a young man with a stump for a right hand. ‘The question every society must ask itself is: how much force are people willing to accept in exchange for the safety of their persons and possessions?’

I frowned. ‘I don’t think I know the answer to that.’

Mr Ascham smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. For the answer to that question is a balancing act for every king and queen. Tyrannical rulers get deposed and beheaded. Weak ones find themselves manipulated by cunning lords and duplicitous advisors. Successful rulers find the balance that suits their time.’

I nodded at the palace ahead of us. ‘And in your opinion is this Sultan Suleiman a successful ruler?’

‘The Moslem people follow the edicts of a great prophet named Muhammad who instilled in them a respect for a higher law. This is the mark of every great society in history: the realisation that all folk, rich and poor alike, are better off abiding by accepted laws rather than the sword. For only once laws are in place can a society truly flourish: the protection of the law gives a population safety and security, and once people have that, they happily contribute to their society. Farmers farm, warriors train for war, artists paint, playwrights write. People become experts in trades and occupations and so society advances at an even greater rate. All because the people accepted basic laws.’

‘What happens in societies that don’t accept such laws?’

‘They end up marching on the spot,’ Mr Ascham said sadly. ‘Look at Africa. There the native tribes still fight each other with spears and sticks, engaging in raids for food and women. Every time a new tribe wins a battle, society has to start all over again, so there is no progress.’

‘With respect, didn’t you tell me only recently that, ultimately, force prevails?’ I said, not a little cheekily.

My teacher half smiled at me. ‘I’m pleased to see you were paying attention. And you are right, you’ve found a paradox in my argument. The only answer I can give you is this: a society of laws is the best we have come up with, but unfortunately not every society chooses to go down that path.’

We came to the Sultan’s palace, and truly it was a wonder of the world.

We passed through an immense and well-guarded outer gate and stepped out into a wide grassy courtyard shaded by many trees. Through this courtyard stretched a broad curving path that brought us to a second gate in a smaller but still sizeable wall.

This inner gate was called the Gate of Salutation and it was surmounted by two triangular spires that looked to me more European than Ottoman. Our guards explained that the gateway had been designed and built recently by Hungarian architects brought to Constantinople by the Sultan. To my eyes, it looked very Hungarian: overdone and dandyish.

After passing through this gate, we were met by an official party of ministers dressed in red silk robes and high white turbans. Some black African eunuchs stood behind them.

Leading the official party was the sadrazam, the Grand Vizier or chief minister to the Sultan. While the others all wore turbans, the sadrazam alone wore one with a beautiful snow-white heron plume rising from its linen coils. He was an exceedingly tall and thin fellow and he bowed low as our player, Mr Giles, was introduced by a herald.

The herald spoke first in Turkish and then in Greek, which, we were told, would be used as a common language at the tournament: ‘Mr Gilbert Giles! Representative of King Henry the Eighth, King of England, Ireland and France!’

The sadrazam shook Mr Giles’s hand.

‘Gentlemen. Welcome to the city of Constantine,’ he said in English. Forgetting myself, I gasped in surprise at his command of my mother tongue.

This caught the sadrazam’s attention and he spied me. ‘Why, hello, little girl.’ He moved toward me. ‘I am Mustafa. What is your name?’

‘Elizabeth, sir,’ I said, bowing.

‘Are you an enthusiast of chess, Miss Elizabeth?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You play?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ah, the English.’ He turned to his own group, switching to an archaic form of Latin that I could actually understand. ‘A most bizarre people. Imagine it, girls playing chess. I have even heard that girls go to school there. And they once had a ruling queen.’

His retinue all recoiled as one in shock.

‘You do not have queens in the Moslem world?’ I inquired politely, also in Latin.

The sadrazam whirled at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide at the realisation that I had understood him perfectly.

‘But of course we do,’ he said in Greek, recovering, his eyes cold. ‘Only they do not rule. They are merely vessels for the Sultan’s seed, wombs on legs, useful only for the production of heirs and troublesome the rest of the time.’ He turned from me, our conversation over, and with a tight smile addressed Mr Giles and Mr Ascham.

‘Gentlemen, you must be tired from your journey. These eunuchs will escort you to your quarters in the south pavilion. Tomorrow evening, His Majesty the Sultan will host a banquet in honour of the players. It will begin at sunset. Good day to you.’

WE SETTLED INTO OUR QUARTERS
—three small but well-appointed rooms gathered around a central entry vestibule. Mr Ascham and Mr Giles had a room each while Elsie and I shared. That evening I delighted in a wonderful night’s sleep in a comfortable bed under a solid roof.

The following day we ventured out into the city.

Up close, it was even busier than I had at first perceived.

One immense bazaar, known as the Grand Bazaar, was simply the greatest marketplace I had ever seen and it was all contained under a single gigantic roof. Stalls stretched as far as the eye could see. Chaos reigned. It seemed that everywhere there was movement and noise: carpet sellers mixed with root farmers who traded with spice merchants who yelled at shepherd boys whose lambs strayed among their sacks. If the Bosphorus Strait marked the dividing line between Europe and the Orient, this was the spot where European and Oriental commerce collided.

The aromas of the spices almost coloured the air—cinnamon, cassia, saffron, turmeric (which we call ‘Indian saffron’)—and everywhere I saw the notoriously potent yellow-and-orange Persian spice mixture known as
adwiya
.

Oriental silk dealers displayed their wares on vast racks: silks of every conceivable colour, divinely smooth to the touch, delightful to the eye and of the highest quality, for the artisans of the Orient have long been experts in the harvesting of silkworms. Elsie and I were in heaven, and Elsie purchased two multicoloured skirts and one translucent silk veil of the kind worn by belly-dancers to cover their faces but not their eyes.

She also, I should add, helped me choose a new dress, dissuading me from buying a purple robe-like thing (‘Oh, no, Bess, that won’t do! You need something that complements your gorgeous hair!’). She convinced me instead to purchase a shimmering golden dress that did indeed go very well with my curly orange locks (‘Remember, Bess: match the dress with your hair and the jewels with your eyes. Oh, look at you. You won’t be able to keep the boys away from you!’). I loved such times with Elsie.

Signs in the local language were everywhere. I had always considered myself rather adept at the acquisition of foreign tongues but the language of the Turks in Constantinople baffled me. Not only was it a strange guttural form of speech but it was also written in a script that was entirely unlike the Roman script I was used to in England. Rather, it was a series of curves, slashes and dots that made no apparent sense whatsoever. My teacher told me that while the script was Arabic, the language it conveyed was actually Turkish, confusing me even further.

I viewed all the signs of the bazaar with squinting eyes, trying to detect some kind of pattern in them. After a time, I found that one phrase seemed to be repeated in several stalls: