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Authors: Kelly Gardiner
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die laughing,’ said Willem. ‘You never know your luck.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very encouraging.’
He bowed. ‘I live to serve.’
I turned to Al-Qasim. ‘Can I practise my punching exercises on Willem from now on?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Hey!’ Willem backed up against the mast. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘You are in Ottoman waters now, my boy,’ said Al-Qasim with a grin. ‘You will have to learn new customs and traditions.’
‘You mean, it’s a tradition that innocent boys can get punched in the nose by women?’
‘Not at all,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘We simply have a much better sense of humour than you northerners.’
I raised my fists. ‘Ready?’
Willem squinted into the sun. ‘I see. This is some kind of conspiracy.’
‘Call it what you like,’ I said. ‘If you’re too scared to have a practice bout with me …’
‘Don’t be stupid, Isabella. As if I —’
I skipped to his left, punching lightly. I was only partly joking. It felt quite good, quite strong, to be facing up to someone who I knew could easily beat me in a fair fight. But who said I had to play fairly? Valentina had been teaching me some of her own unique approaches, such as stamping your heel on unprotected toes and kicking men in areas of the body that I only theoretically knew existed.
‘I hope those aren’t pirates on the horizon,’ I said, gazing over Willem’s shoulder at the empty sea. As he turned to look, I pinched his earlobe between my fingers and twisted.
‘Hey!’
‘Do you yield?’
I could barely hear his reply over Valentina’s laughter.
In the evenings, by the light of the captain’s lantern, Al-Qasim taught us Arabic. At least, he taught Valentina and me.
‘Why can’t they use proper letters, like normal people?’ Willem asked, more than once.
Al-Qasim laughed, at least the first few times. I did, too, but I knew what Willem meant. The script was so different to the letters I knew, even to Hebrew, that it was a struggle holding it all in my memory. The brushstrokes were so delicate, the calligraphy so intricate to my eyes, that I had trouble remembering the subtle differences between the characters.
After a couple of nights, Willem gave up altogether and spent his evenings talking with the crew in the motley mixture of languages so common on board ships. At least he was learningsomething useful: the dialect of the ports and streets, and all the words most important for survival. He learned fast enough when he did it his way, by talking to other people, mixing in a few shrugs and waves and facial expressions, making friends. In fact, he was much better at that than I could ever be.
Al-Qasim and I continued our work; he, always the patient and courteous teacher I had never managed to be in all those months I’d tried teaching Latin to Willem. Al-Qasim also spent long hours talking to the three of us about the protocols of the Ottomans, the rituals and manners that seemed so foreign to us.
‘It is many years since I was in Constantinople,’ he said. He poured us each a tiny cup of the strong, sweet coffee we could expect to drink in our new home. ‘I was a young astronomer fresh from my studies in Alexandria, given the most precious gift of all: a position in the Sultan’s Palace. It was a different sultan then, of course, the mad one, Ibrahim, father of the new boy Sultan.’
‘There are mad people?’ asked Willem.
‘Yes, as everywhere.’
‘But they let them be in charge?’
‘Not for long, as it turned out. Ibrahim was vicious. Violent. Spent all his riches on women and foolishness. It was he who declared war on Venice. It is said that his own mother had him deposed.’
‘There are good and bad, great and dull people, in every city, every religion, Willem,’ said Valentina, sipping her coffee. ‘Even you must recognise that.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But I like to keep out of the way of the bad ones.’
‘Which is exactly what we will
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very encouraging.’
He bowed. ‘I live to serve.’
I turned to Al-Qasim. ‘Can I practise my punching exercises on Willem from now on?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Hey!’ Willem backed up against the mast. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘You are in Ottoman waters now, my boy,’ said Al-Qasim with a grin. ‘You will have to learn new customs and traditions.’
‘You mean, it’s a tradition that innocent boys can get punched in the nose by women?’
‘Not at all,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘We simply have a much better sense of humour than you northerners.’
I raised my fists. ‘Ready?’
Willem squinted into the sun. ‘I see. This is some kind of conspiracy.’
‘Call it what you like,’ I said. ‘If you’re too scared to have a practice bout with me …’
‘Don’t be stupid, Isabella. As if I —’
I skipped to his left, punching lightly. I was only partly joking. It felt quite good, quite strong, to be facing up to someone who I knew could easily beat me in a fair fight. But who said I had to play fairly? Valentina had been teaching me some of her own unique approaches, such as stamping your heel on unprotected toes and kicking men in areas of the body that I only theoretically knew existed.
‘I hope those aren’t pirates on the horizon,’ I said, gazing over Willem’s shoulder at the empty sea. As he turned to look, I pinched his earlobe between my fingers and twisted.
‘Hey!’
‘Do you yield?’
I could barely hear his reply over Valentina’s laughter.
In the evenings, by the light of the captain’s lantern, Al-Qasim taught us Arabic. At least, he taught Valentina and me.
‘Why can’t they use proper letters, like normal people?’ Willem asked, more than once.
Al-Qasim laughed, at least the first few times. I did, too, but I knew what Willem meant. The script was so different to the letters I knew, even to Hebrew, that it was a struggle holding it all in my memory. The brushstrokes were so delicate, the calligraphy so intricate to my eyes, that I had trouble remembering the subtle differences between the characters.
After a couple of nights, Willem gave up altogether and spent his evenings talking with the crew in the motley mixture of languages so common on board ships. At least he was learningsomething useful: the dialect of the ports and streets, and all the words most important for survival. He learned fast enough when he did it his way, by talking to other people, mixing in a few shrugs and waves and facial expressions, making friends. In fact, he was much better at that than I could ever be.
Al-Qasim and I continued our work; he, always the patient and courteous teacher I had never managed to be in all those months I’d tried teaching Latin to Willem. Al-Qasim also spent long hours talking to the three of us about the protocols of the Ottomans, the rituals and manners that seemed so foreign to us.
‘It is many years since I was in Constantinople,’ he said. He poured us each a tiny cup of the strong, sweet coffee we could expect to drink in our new home. ‘I was a young astronomer fresh from my studies in Alexandria, given the most precious gift of all: a position in the Sultan’s Palace. It was a different sultan then, of course, the mad one, Ibrahim, father of the new boy Sultan.’
‘There are mad people?’ asked Willem.
‘Yes, as everywhere.’
‘But they let them be in charge?’
‘Not for long, as it turned out. Ibrahim was vicious. Violent. Spent all his riches on women and foolishness. It was he who declared war on Venice. It is said that his own mother had him deposed.’
‘There are good and bad, great and dull people, in every city, every religion, Willem,’ said Valentina, sipping her coffee. ‘Even you must recognise that.’
‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But I like to keep out of the way of the bad ones.’
‘Which is exactly what we will
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