The Tournament (17 page)

‘Maximilian of Vienna!’ A chorus of boos and hisses came from the crowd as the Habsburg player’s name was called. All were aware of the sharp-edged relationship between the Ottomans and the Habsburgs.

‘This is a good match for Zaman,’ Mr Giles whispered to my teacher. ‘Maximilian is one of the weaker players here. An
aliyat
like Zaman should make short work of him.’

The rest of the draw took place in similar style, with great theatricality from the Sultan and enthusiastic responses from the crowd. As each match was drawn, the players’ names were put up on a large scoreboard not unlike those seen at jousts (I later learned that identical scoreboards had been erected for the crowds outside) and as he drew them, the Sultan placed the drawn stones in a row on a bench near the scoreboard.

Mr Giles drew a very tough opponent in his first-round match. He would play Talib, the aged librarian from Baghdad.

The Pope’s man, Brother Raul, drew Brother Eduardo of Syracuse, while the Muscovite, Vladimir, drew a wily little Egyptian from Cairo. The brutish Wallachian, Dragan of Brasov, drew the Venetian representative, who was not, those around me commented, regarded as a strong player.

But the greatest cheer of all arose when the name of the peasant champion, Ibrahim of Constantinople, was called. The crowd’s cheers dissipated somewhat, however, when his opponent was called: the formidable young Prussian, Wilhelm of Königsberg. That would be a demanding match for both parties.

When the ceremony was over, the tournament draw filled the large scoreboard. It read:

The sadrazam announced, ‘The first match—between Zaman of Constantinople and Maximilian of Vienna—will commence exactly one hour from now! A single afternoon match will follow. Tomorrow, the remaining six matches of the first round will be played on two boards here in this hall. Now, honour your Sultan!’

The massive crowd fell as one to their knees as the Sultan swept out through the rear door. Once he was gone, they rose again and started murmuring about the draw and the matches.

Many of the players and their entourages also left the hall, their presence no longer required. The crowd, however, stayed exactly where they were: positions inside the Hagia Sophia were highly prized and would not be given up lightly.

‘What say you, Giles?’ Mr Ascham said. ‘Would you like to watch the first match or would you prefer to retire to our rooms?’

‘I think I should like to get used to the mood of this hall,’ Mr Giles said. ‘It is a large space and the crowd is lively. I am also interested to see Zaman play.’

‘Splendid. I myself would be most pleased to sit still for a while and watch some good chess.’ He smiled at me and glanced at Elsie (who was studiously examining her fingernails).

Then he stood and strolled over to the bench by the scoreboard, the one on which the Sultan had placed the drawn stones. I followed him.

Mr Ascham picked up a few of the smoothed stones and rolled them around in his hand, marvelling at their artistry.

I came up beside him. ‘The Sultan certainly knows how to put on a spectacle.’

‘He does indeed,’ Mr Ascham said as he inspected one stone closely before putting it down. ‘He also knows how to rig a draw.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t make any outward reaction, Bess, just feel this stone. It is the one marked with Zaman’s name.’ Mr Ascham handed me the rock.

It was warm.

‘Don’t react,’ he whispered sharply. ‘The stone for Maximilian of Vienna is also warm while the stones for Ibrahim of Constantinople and the Prussian are both cold, as if they have been kept in snow. The rest are all of normal temperature.’

I was shocked. ‘Are you saying that a draw that just took place in front of five thousand people was fixed? That the Sultan knew which stones to select?’

‘It is not hard to heat up two stones in a fire or cool two others in snow. They still look like rocks to the crowd. I suspect His Majesty wanted his royal cousin, Zaman, to play in the first match of the tournament
and
to have an easy opponent. I also suspect that he did not want Zaman to be on the same side of the draw as the people’s champion, Ibrahim. He does not want his two local heroes to clash, which is probably why Ibrahim also drew a very tough opponent in the Prussian, Wilhelm. The Sultan looks after his royal relative.’

My teacher moved away from the bench. I shook my head as I followed him. ‘You know, sir, sometimes I fear that you are too curious for your own good.’

‘Sometimes I do, too,’ he replied as we returned to our seats to await the first match of the tournament.

AN EERIE HUSH GRIPPED
the hall of the Hagia Sophia. It was unnerving to see so gargantuan a space filled with so many spectators yet be so perfectly still and silent.

In the centre of the massive hall, surrounded by the enormous crowd, sat the Sultan’s champion, Zaman, and Maximilian of Vienna, a stiff-backed Austrian with a small pointed moustache trimmed in the style popular in Austria in those days. High above them sat the Sultan, who had returned to his throne eager to observe the first match of his historic tournament.

The match began and the crowd watched it with rapt intensity. Every move was followed by a ripple of hushed whispers. The people of Constantinople certainly loved their chess.

As the sadrazam had explained the previous evening, each match was composed of seven games; the first player to win four games won the match.

I sat with Mr Ascham, Mr Giles and Elsie in the special seats reserved for players and their companions on the Sultan’s stage. About halfway through the first game, Mr Giles leaned over to Mr Ascham and whispered, ‘This will be a short match. Zaman has Maximilian’s measure. The Austrian is out of his depth.’

Sure enough, the first game finished within half an hour, with Zaman mating his opponent without losing a major piece. The second game was over even faster—as soon as Zaman took Maximilian’s queen, the Austrian floundered and in his desperation lost first his bishops then his knights, then his rooks. After less than an hour of play, Zaman was leading two games to nil.

As the third game commenced and Zaman took an early lead, I noticed that my teacher was not watching the board at all. Rather, he was observing Cardinal Cardoza, who sat at the opposite end of the royal stage watching the match with profound disinterest. He was flanked by some junior visiting priests from Rome who looked equally bored.

My teacher’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking about something.

‘What is it?’ I whispered.

‘The two cardinals took their dinner in the embassy . . .’ Mr Ascham said softly.

‘So?’

My teacher kept staring at the cardinal. ‘The rash . . . the swelling of the tongue . . . Elephant’s Ear . . .’

He stood up abruptly. ‘I have to go.’

When he rose, so did Latif nearby.

‘Where are you going?’ I hissed, but my teacher was already leaving so I hurried after him, out of the hall, back toward the palace.

Mr Ascham strode purposefully back through the main gates of Topkapi Palace and headed quickly up the tree-lined path that led to the inner Gate of Salutation.

‘Can you
please
explain to me what you are doing?’ I pleaded as I struggled to keep up with him.

‘Do you remember when we saw the dead cardinal’s body last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you recall the rash inside his mouth? And his swollen tongue?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘There is a poisonous plant called the Elephant’s Ear which is known to cause rashes around the mouth, and if ingested in large quantities will cause the victim’s tongue to swell to such an extent that it will block the air passage to his throat and suffocate him.’

‘Wait. Are you saying that Cardinal Farnese was killed by some poison?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but what about the
stab wounds
all over his body? Don’t you think
they
might have played a substantial role in his death?’

‘The cardinal was already dead when he was stabbed so energetically,’ Mr Ascham said simply.

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because the cardinal’s many stab wounds did not bleed. When its heart has already stopped, a body will not bleed when it is pierced. A
live
man stabbed so many times and in such a frenzy would have bled copiously—Lord, it would have been a bloodbath—but you told me yourself there was little blood around the pool in which Cardinal Farnese was found. For a man stabbed so vigorously, there should have been great swathes of blood around that pool—even if his killer had carried him to the pool on his shoulders, there should have been some kind of trail of dripping blood. But there was none. When we went to call upon Cardinal Cardoza earlier today, I examined the grounds around the Catholic embassy and found no trace of blood on the surrounding grass. Had the cardinal been stabbed to death inside that building, there would have been at least
some
blood left on the ground as he was conveyed away.’

‘Perhaps our killer is more careful than you think,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he cleaned up the blood trail, or perhaps he conveyed the body from the embassy in a wagon, or perhaps he did not kill the cardinal in the embassy at all.’

Mr Ascham nodded as we passed through the Gate of Salutation and headed across the Second Courtyard.

‘All good points, Bess. All very good points. Nevertheless, I still believe Cardinal Farnese was dead when he was stabbed.’

‘Why!’

‘Because he offered no defence against his frenzied attacker.’

I stopped walking. ‘How can you possibly know this?’ My teacher did not stop. He kept walking. I hurried after him. ‘How can you know this?’ I repeated.

‘When we saw the cardinal’s corpse in the dungeon, did you happen to notice his hands?’ Mr Ascham asked.

‘Yes. They were pudgy, grey and pale, and otherwise completely normal.’

‘Precisely. In the face of such a violent attack, wouldn’t even the weakest man raise his hands in some form of defence and consequently receive cuts to his upraised palms? Yet the cardinal’s hands were completely unmarked. A dead man offers no defence. Hence, my conclusion.’

I fell silent. It was actually rather sound logic.

‘All right, then. So why stab the cardinal so many times if he was already dead?’ I asked.

My teacher turned to face me as we walked.

‘To throw us off the scent,’ he said. ‘Like the flaying of the face, the stabbing was a ruse designed to lead the casual investigator to conclude that the cardinal was killed by the insane fiend. It was done to conceal the identity of the cardinal’s true killer. Unfortunately for the killer, he could not know that the insane fiend was locked in the Sultan’s dungeon at the time.’

I was beginning to see that the unravelling of this matter was giving my teacher a peculiar kind of thrill. I honestly think he enjoyed pitting his wits against those of the murderer. When he went on, he spoke quickly and with enthusiasm.

‘If we accept that the cardinal was poisoned, we must now ask
how
: how was he poisoned? You will recall Cardinal Cardoza left the banquet to take his dinner in his embassy with Cardinal Farnese. I think the poison that killed Cardinal Farnese was slipped into his meal, a meal that was prepared in the kitchens and taken to the Catholic embassy. Which is why I must speak with the chef, Brunello of Borgia, right this instant.’

It was only then that I realised that we had crossed the Second Courtyard and arrived at the kitchens.

My teacher hurried into the kitchen area, barging through wafts of steam and passing by several slaughter rooms as the apron-wearing slaughterers inside them flung water across their chopping blocks, washing away blood.

A small group of servants was gathered in the doorway of the farthest slaughter room, at the rearmost corner of the kitchen.

‘Oh, no . . .’ Mr Ascham quickened his stride. ‘No . . .’

We came to the doorway in question, my teacher pushing through the group of aghast kitchen hands.

We stopped dead in our tracks.

The room was filled with six large sides of beef, hanging in a row from meat hooks, and hanging with them, their crooked necks bent at horrible angles in separate nooses, were the bodies of Brunello of Borgia and his wife, Marianna.