Twilight

As I age my perception of aging changes. For example, both physically and metaphorically, the renewal of a prescription for reading glasses is often a waypoint on that journey. As I sit there trying to focus on command other perspectives often intrude. I am sometimes distracted by myself, or a transcendental version of myself looking at me through the eyes of 12, 18, 30, 40 year-old. Is it pity I see? Or intrigue? Or a smirk at the vanity of choosing a frame? 

Getting old is inevitable, its impact generally gradual, but occasionally may be sudden, chaotic and overwhelming as in someone who experiences a stroke. Much is within our control, but equally much is beyond. After living with us for 14 years my mother-in-law at 93 has recently had to be admitted to a nursing home because of severe and progressive dementia. On some occasions when I visit I have a strange visceral sensation of her paleness, as if her physicality has somehow merged into a twilight, where the definition between night and day, between sleeping and waking, between death and life is so blurred as to be a state in itself.

William Butler Yeats in his poem The Magi had the following lines:

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,

In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones

Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky

With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones

I wonder whether when it’s my turn will I exist in a pale, unsatisfied evening twilight or will the colour of my morning dreams remain. 

To explain this chosen imagery a little in times past night was divided into seven stages. The first of these stages was called crepusculum, that is evening twilight. The second is vesperum, when the evening star appears in the evening. The third was conticinium, or silence. The fourth was intempestum, midnight and the fifth gallicinium, or cock-crow. The sixth was matutinum celebrating the dawn goddess Matuta. The final division was diluculum, or dawn twilight. 

As in life evening twilight varies on whether you are standing (civil twilight is until the sun drops 6º below the horizon), swimming (nautical twilight is until it is 6-12º below) or flying in space (astronomical twilight is until the sun is 12-18º below). The accusation of paleness associated with age and cruelly used by poets and polemists, for a perceived deterioration in the physical and intellectual being of oneself, can all be but erased by holding out in space for the dawn twilight, diluculum, the two lights, that within and that without. 

The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 9)

Chapter 15 

Algiers. 6th June 1632

Catherine had washed and dressed slowly. It was this aspect of harem life in particular that she had embraced most. The emphasis on bathing and personal cleanliness was in stark contrast to the remembered smells and odours of the unwashed bodies of her Northern-European heritage no matter how much they had tried to disguise it with heavily scented perfumes. Once ready she left the female sanctuary by an ornately carved ebony door that opened into a narrow passageway that linked the harem with Ali Bitchnin’s living quarters. Seeing her enter, the eunuch Suleyman Agassi began to rise gingerly to his feet from the narrow divan that served as his guard-post for the corridor. She stopped him getting up and then quickly checked the bandages she had applied to his feet the previous evening. Tears welled in his eyes, but he said nothing. Behind them she could hear the children’s playful banter as they began their first lessons of the day.

Once satisfied with the eunuch’s wounds she continued along the passageway but instead of turning into the living quarters took the exit that led her out into the main courtyard. She saw that Suarez the surgeon was waiting for her. By now his wooden leg had been replaced with a gold and silver artificial limb of the highest craftsmanship possible. It even allowed articulation at the knee and thus he could walk with a step rather than dragging the amputated stump around in an arc. 

“Thank you for waiting for me, Antonio.”

Suarez was smiling warmly as she walked towards him. “It is my pleasure. Always Catherine. What is the problem?”

Catherine’s attention was momentarily captured by a dove landing in the courtyard and starting to peck for grain. It was oblivious to the attentions of the nearby kitchen cat. “Tell me something about the eunuchs.”

Suarez was surprised by the question but answered anyway. “In the past only their balls were taken, but it is said that one of the Sultans observed a gelding horse mount a mare, and also hearing of the rumours of the pleasures afforded by some of the eunuchs to the women of the harem he ordered that they be fully castrated, so that all that was left was as smooth as the back of one’s hand.”

Catherine still appeared lost in her thoughts and asked in a uninterested tone “How do they pisse? ”

“They carry a special quill in their turbans for the purpose.” Suarez paused for a moment. “However Catherine, interesting as this is, the urgency of your call had surely nought to do with eunuchs pissing.”

Catherine looked at him. “I am sorry Antonio. You are right. Please excuse my distraction.” She hesitated for a moment, before continuing, “I am with child. My terms did not come and the mornings have become filled with retching. I will not carry the putrid fruit of a rapist’s seed and need to be rid of it. In this area I have no expertise.”

Suarez noted the cold almost detached determination in her voice. “A surgical probe is a death sentence for many Catherine. I will not bear that responsibility.” He took her hand and guided her to one of the divans that lined the walls of this partially covered inner courtyard where Ali Binchnin conducted most of his meetings and audiences. 

Once seated Catherine said nothing for a long time as she continued to watch the stalking cat. When it looked as if the dove was in peril she rose and shouted, frightening it into flight. She turned back to Suarez. “You must, Antonio.”

He was unable to hold her intense gaze and began looking at the ground. “No Catherine. Even my eternal debt to you will not persuade me of that course.”

The dove had returned and landed nearby. The cat was once again instantly alert. “Then what am I to do?” Catherine suddenly began to cry, the hot tears of anger scorching down her cheeks.

“There is a tribal healer, that I know of, who has a great expertise in this area, particularly as you are early in the time. Suarez held her hand tightly.

“But his instruments . . . the dirt. I have seen some of those places with you . . .” Catherine went pale at the thought.

“His only instrument is his ambi’aq or distillation kettle. Trust me, Catherine. I would never put you in danger. Come, I must go into the city anyhow and we will go and see him. No time like the present.”

They began walking across the courtyard. From the shadows Ahmed emerged to fall in behind them. Catherine turned to him. “Ahmed please remain here. I will be safe with Surgeon Suarez.”

“I am sorry Lady Catherine, but where you go, I go. Ali Bitchnin is not to be crossed. In any event I am used to walking in my father’s shadow.”

“Your father, what do you mean?” She caught Suarez’s eye, as he moved forward to greet the lad, and as they embraced, he winked at her and shrugging his shoulders smiled - the smile of a proud man.

“Come on, Catherine, we must go before the market closes.” 

They left the inner courtyard of the seraglio and once in the outer yard mounted Suarez’s small carriage and made their way towards the bab-el oued. Behind them, unseen by the departing trio, there was a flurry of feathers as the cat pounced and captured its quarry. Catherine noted, as they drew near the gate, that the bodies of both sailors still hung on the hooks but that mercifully there did not appear to be any signs of life in the second of the two. There were a number of small groups of travellers and traders entering at the same time, all moving very slowly as they gazed silently up at the spectacle. Once inside the city they made their way to the main souk where after leaving the cart Suarez guided Catherine down a small alleyway. 

Ahmed kept his hand on his curved sword partially drawing it from its scabbard. The sword had been a present from Suarez and its beautiful double-edged blade was mounted into a silver handle with a two-lobed leaf terminal. It had been made in Konya in the reign of Keyhusrev II - the last of the great Seljuk Emperors of Rum. “It is a sword to die for,” Ahmed murmured to himself as he watched every shadow.

They eventually stopped outside a small shop. Entering the dark recess Catherine was amazed by the number of baskets holding dead insects of all descriptions. She recognised the locusts and the rare Cantharide beetle which appeared on the olive trees in Spring. Suarez had warned her not to remove her veil. Presently a tall man appeared from the back of the shop and Suarez spoke to him in Arabic. After a short time he retreated to the rear again. She could hear him pounding a mortar. He briefly reappeared to take a handful of dead insects from a small basket near the backdoor. Catherine shook as she whispered in Suarez’s ear and pointed to the baskets. He lifted the lid of one and selected out the desiccated body of a locust, inspecting it carefully on the palm of his hand.  “The man is Abu ibn ’Souik from the Aures Mountains. He is a shawiya practitioner and a disciple of Daud el Antaki. The Aures people see the locust as a magic cure in that it digests all plants and so some good must come out of it. The Cantharide beetles that you recognised, are collected in April, put in a bottle and buried in dung for forty days. The maggots that result are crushed into a paste which is reputed to prevent wound infections. Shh . . . he returns.”

The Berber handed over a package to Suarez and accepted two gold coins as payment. He bit their edges to check their authenticity and at the same time fixed Catherine with a stare. He kept staring at her as he gave instructions to Suarez. When finished she tried to thank him but he turned away abruptly. Without a further word she and Suarez walked back to the souk where Suarez handed the package to Catherine. “The root of madder you must place inside you. In about fourteen hours you will begin to bleed. Remove the root and take the second mixture which is comprised of carrot seeds and the crushed bodies of rimosa beetles. This will cause intense spasms and complete the process. Ahmed will return with you to Binchnin’s as I have to attend the Dey but I will call on you tomorrow.”

With that Suarez remounted his cart and made his way towards the castle at the very top of the hill. Catherine watched him go, clutching the package tightly against her stomach.

Chapter 16 

Algiers. 10th September 1632

Djivo and another man - a Turk wearing a brightly coloured tunic and elaborate turban - stopped at the small fountain near the edge of the batistan. market. The Turk picked up a ladle and filling it brought the liquid to his lips. The water tasted pure enough and he gave Djivo a smile before passing the ladle to him. Both of them were returning from a meeting with the Divan where the Turk - who as chehelbeled was the Alderman and City Engineer - gave a report of Djivo’s work in restoring the old Moorish well outside the city walls and the repair of its aqueduct into the city. They had also informed the Divan that Djivo had managed to source another underground water supply a short distance from the southern perimeter. The Dey was well pleased with his progress and the chehelbeled basking in the acknowledgement of his supervisory role invited Djivo to go with him to the best hamam in the city. This was attached to the han reserved for the caravans that brought gold from the interior.

On entering the door of the hamam, they crossed a small outer courtyard and entered the camekan or outer salon. Here they undressed in small cubicles and were handed towels and slippers by the attendants. They then entered the first chamber or sogukluk for about ten minutes of gentle warming before the searing moisture-laden heat of the inner hareret with its domed roof welcomed them. After about twenty minutes Djivo had enough of the heat and he was just about to leave when a large negro attendant approached and led him to a raised central platform. The man took away his towel and pushing Djivo face down, naked, onto the marble slabs began to massage him. He thought this to be very rough and every sinew touched protested. Just as he was about to cry out in pain, the assault stopped and he felt his body being washed in cool water. Djivo was allowed to sit up for a brief respite before the attendant returned and began rubbing a rich earth into his skin with a kese cloth. By now the pain had disappeared to be replaced by an exquisite relaxation. The earth was washed off and the final part of the whole process was a manipulation of all of his joints. 

Rising, as if on air, Djivo left the hot-room and was handed a dry towel as he made his way back to the camekan to sit in one of the cool alcoves to await the completion of his companions treatment. ‘For this alone,’ Djivo thought to himself, all his efforts with the aqueduct were worthwhile. Because it was September and the summer heat had not yet dissipated, large roof-mounted fans were continuously agitated by two small boys. Presently the chehelbeled joined him and they were served some sherbet. “Djivo you know that I have some responsibility in negotiating the ransom of slaves particularly those whose duties are assigned to the city.”

Djivo nodded cautiously. He had learnt to be very wary of the boastful Turk.

“Well, the Dey has informed me that there is a Spanish boat in the Roads flying the white flag and they have entered into negotiations. Apart from a pox-ridden Duke who has rotted here, unwanted for years, it appears that they are inordinately interested in your release and have offered a very generous ransom. The Dey assumed, rightly, that your work is not yet complete and informed the envoy that they should return next year. He asked me how long I felt it would take you to finish and I said about ten months depending on the Winter we get.”

Djivo’s heart sank at the news. “Did the monks have any other news for me?”

The Turk looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Monks what monks? This was not a Trinitarian ship. You are obviously a very valuable captive.”

It was Djivo’s turn to look bemused. “I am not sure what you mean Chelelbeled!”

“The ship carried the envoy of the King of Spain. One of the Calatrava Knights, no less. A brave man for an ifrir to enter the city on such an errand.” The Turk was aware of a sudden discomfort in Djivo’s eyes.

“Calatrava, are you sure ?”

The Turkish engineer stiffened at the question. “Of course, how dare you question it. Nitla’ barra. Where are my clothes?” The Turk abruptly stood up and began dressing. Djivo followed him, angry that his surprised response had caused a tension between them. Once dressed, and having paid the bath keeper his baksheesh, they left the hamam and began climbing the hill towards the bano. 

Djivo was deep in thought and he suddenly stumbled on a small step. At that very moment, as he put out his arms to break his fall, he saw a puff of smoke emitting from the shadows of a nearby cikmaz or cul de sac and almost instantaneously heard the retort and felt the scorching heat of something hitting his chest and throwing him backwards. Two of the chehelbeled’s escort - who had been waiting for them outside the hamam - immediately ran into the alleyway. There was another shot and the sound of shouting. Just as quickly it all went quiet and the two soldiers emerged carrying a dripping head. Djivo ignored this spectacle and struggling to his feet went to where the decapitated body lay. There were still spasms of movement and apart from some gold Spanish reals in the man’s pouch there were no papers of identification. By this time Djivo was coughing blood-stained sputum and he felt weak. His breathing became laboured and he barely made it back to the street before collapsing. The Turk knelt at his side. 

“Take me to Ali Bitchnin’s hospital, please,” Djivo whispered before lapsing into unconsciousness. 

The Turk nodded and immediately ordered his escort to take Djivo to Bitchnin’s bano. 

Once deposited in one of the small rooms of the hospital, Djivo recovered somewhat and was relieved to see Catherine coming in. For a moment he thought, before it all went dark again, her face showed the concern of a lover rather than that of a surgeon.

It was darker still when he awoke. He could not remember where he was but could only feel pain - its intensity made worse by moving and breathing. Djivo tried to suppress a cough but could not and cried out with the effort. An attendant rushed in carrying a lamp and he could hear voices in the courtyard. Catherine entered.

“You must try not to move. I will give you some more tincture.” Catherine spoke in Italian as she leant forward to give him a small cup to sip. She then lifted a lamp to check the bandages, pleased that there was no fresh blood staining them. To Djivo she had the face of an Angel.

“I must be in heaven . . .” Djivo murmured as he collapsed back on his pillow. Their hands touched.

“What did you say?” Catherine looked at him but did not withdraw her hand. She leant forward to hear him.

“You . . . I must be in heaven.” Djivo was smiling at her until another coughing spasm wiped it off. She smiled back. “Scoundrel. No more opium for you. Rest now and I will see you in the morning.” Catherine left, trying to hide her blushing face from the nursing attendants.

The morning could not come quick enough for either of them and when she saw him sitting up and taking some tea she laughed for the first time in what seemed an eternity. “You must have the constitution of an ox.”

Djivo looked up, she was wearing a flowing blue robe and was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. “Thanks to you . . . What happened?”

Catherine sat on the bed and began unwrapping his bandages. Once satisfied she remained there until the dresser had re-covered the wounds and left. He held out his hand and she took it, squeezing it gently. “The bullet passed through the apex of your lung and lodged in the shoulder blade. I was able to prize it out and thankfully there was very little air or blood lost from your chest.”

Djivo tried to bring his other hand forward but it hurt too much. “Catherine, I . . .”

“Shh . . . Djivo, later.” With that she leant down and kissed him, ever so softly on the lips. It was a kiss of promise, a kiss of kindred spirits without the need for explanation. She left him then and both had tears of joy welling in their eyes. 

©R.Derham 2001,2009

Chronohelios – The Double Helix of Spacetime?

I was reading recently portions of James Lovelock’s revisitation of his Gaia theory – the Earth as an entire living, breathing organism – and of his quite pessimistic forecasts of eventual implosion. This is entirely logical. Like any living, breathing organism there is an obvious limit to Earth’s physical coping mechanisms when confronted by sustained and intense stress – humans, in contrast, by virtue of their capacity to reason also have an further layer of coping mechanism developed in their individual psychology – and there is no doubt that when we build a world economy based on an estimated commodity worth of basic human requirements for food, water, shelter, etc by layering that notion of worth with the principles of pleasure and accumulation then it is inevitable that those requirements cannot be met indefinitely because of greed. Most western economies have encouraged that human ‘greed’ principle at the expense of exhausting finite planetary resources. And to what eventual purpose? Human pleasure is both an ephemeral and transitory state and has had, and continues to have, either in its attainment or denial an enormous capability to overwhelm both physical and psychological coping. And the sad thing is we actually understand how we are imploding, how we seek to manipulate to the very end the DNA of our genesis and our survival.

Where to next, we wonder. Is there somewhere beyond our galaxy that could provide a viable solution? And if we could get there will we exploit as we have always exploited?

On the question of travel I am not in any way capable of understanding the physics of spacetime, and am thus uncertain whether the limitations of my imagination – and possible inter-galactic travel – are contained by a quantum, a geodesic or a string. I do wonder however that if we accept that our own planet is a living organism then the foundation of that whole organism even in its smallest manifestation must in all likelihood be the double-helical structure of DNA. As a logical extension of a physical structure that is proven to work is it not conceivable that our planet, our galaxy, the entire universe might be linked by a double helix of spacetime, the chronohelios. Could this explain the inconsistencies, the differing interpretations? 

Once we do understand then we can at last understand the constraints. 

The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 8)

Chapter 13 

Algiers. 15th May 1632

Catherine was walking down the hill towards the road that would take her to the western gate. She was accompanied by one of Bitchnin’s negro harem eunuchs and they were hurrying as the rapidly setting sun would soon mean the night closure of the gates. It never ceased to surprise her how, even when bathed in full daylight, this city of beautiful white-faced houses, could be linked by such a maze of narrow streets which all appeared to descend into an abyss of darkness that only occasional glints of sunlight penetrated. Murat had explained to her on one of her first forays that a city built this way was easier to defend in case of attack. She had been to the pharmacy attached to the hospital in the Grande bano to obtain the supplies she required. Ahead of them a group of short dark men in baggy trousers were also rushing to the gate. She recognised them as being beni m’zab - Berber tribesmen of the separatist Ibadite Islamic sect from Ghardaia on the oued m’zab. Catherine knew that they worked in the slaughterhouse in Algiers but refused to pray in the city’s mosques or stay in the city at night. Their shrouded rushing movements reminded Catherine of the plague-fearing grave diggers of Dublin.

The months of captivity had passed swiftly and between her work in Bitchnin’s bano hospital and visiting the sick in their homes in the city she was always occupied. Although because of Islamic reservations she was not allowed enter the hospitals of the other banos, Ali Bitchnin had recognised her abilities and allowed her full access in his. She also made visits to treat the rich women of the city and increasingly their husbands came to her, secretly, for eye cataract surgery - for which she had gained a fine reputation. Catherine had been given her own quarters in the harem which was situated as an annexe to Bitchnin’s seraglio. He was well paid for the medical services that she provided but always ensured that she received a share. The three-cornered hat that she wore while working in the bano represented a professional acknowledgement and ensured a measure of freedom that most captives could only dream of.

Catherine had only seen Murat a few times as his winter was occupied by supervising repairs to his ship and tending to his own villa and farm which was reached by ascending the narrow mule track that linked the Mustapha heights above the city to the road entering the bab-azoun, the gate at the southern end of the city. She had made the journey once in early Spring and was amazed by the beauty of his villa. The external walls were draped in cascades of ermine bougainvillaea and the house itself appeared to disappear in a forest of orange, palm and cypress trees. Once past the plain entrance arch its cool outer courtyard with marble tiles and spouting fountain provided a backdrop to his indulged children’s games. Inside the reception rooms she was no longer surprised by the Algerian custom of hanging melons from the roof. When viewed from the hill, the evening sunset casting a rose hue on the white walls of Algiers was a truly memorable sight. On this and all other occasions that they met, Murat was always courteous and would take time to explain aspects of Algiers life that she did not understand. Catherine was sad to lose this contact when he had recently returned to sea. Murat had taken three of Bitchnin’s galliots on a mission to Tunis. 

She had written a number of letters to Ireland but could not be sure that they would reach their destination. Most of the other captives from Baltimore had been dispersed though she did see a number of the men hauling rock from the quarries to repair the harbour mole. She had heard that four of the children had been taken to Istanbul - their grieving parents not convinced that little harm would come to them - and that a number of families had been ransomed by their compatriots in Sale. The injured surgeon was back at work and he made a point of taking Catherine to all of the places where native Berber healers plied their trade. She learnt the local botany of herbs and plants and became skilled in their distillation, preparation and use. As time went by she felt more and more at home in the new life that had been forced upon her. 

Catherine’s thoughts were interrupted at the approach of two Janissary officers. Although she thought she recognised the younger man, they did not acknowledge her as she stood aside to let them pass. They were at an intersection of two streets and as it was nearly dark the eunuch said he would rush ahead to warn the gate guards to wait. The peculiar blue hue of the walls of the houses forming the narrow streets heightened the gloom. He had just left when from the shadows three drunken sailors came towards her. She once again stepped aside to let them pass but they moved to block her.

“What have we here, tars?” 

The first sailor, who was about a foot taller than Catherine, spoke in English as he lurched forward to knock away the package she was carrying. As she bent to pick it up he grabbed her from behind in such a vice-grip that it squeezed the air from her lungs. She tried to scream but one of the others put a hand over her mouth and pointed a thin dagger at her eye. The only noise that came was the gasp of her fight for air. Catherine stopped struggling. The sailor who held her now lifted her off her feet at the same time moving his hands to grasp her breasts. 

“What fine jugs you have lass. She will provide some fine sport lads. Quickly, into the house.”

Catherine was bundled roughly through a door in a nearby filthy alleyway to find herself within the narrow right-angled passageway leading to the courtyard of a small house. The door was kicked closed behind them - its solid wood shutting out the world. There was no doorkeeper seated on the mastaba seat, no one to help. Two of the sailors were pulling her by her wrists to an inner courtyard and from there into the mandara or the main reception room of the house. Apart from some tatty carpets on one side the only piece of furniture was a small marble stand in one corner of the room. The lice-ridden sailor with the dagger had stuffed a filthy cloth in her mouth and its pungent stench and the fear she felt sent waves of nausea through her. The bigger man ripped off her cotton shirt and undergarment and spread-eagled her naked, face downwards and bent over an overturned barrel which stank of brine and which he had rolled from an alcove. Some of the small fish it contained spilt across the stone floor.

The big sailor shouted out in glee, “Look at all this white meat lads. Her conncha will make a change from the poxy mulatto whores. Hold her fast!”

Catherine could not see him but felt her hips being pulled up and back as he mounted her from behind. Her head spun with the searing pain as first his penis entered her anus but then guided by his hand her vagina. He began to move faster and faster lifting her off the barrel and slamming her down again with each thrust. She could hardly breathe as he was pulling her neck back by her hair. The other two were looking directly into her eyes, their pleasure heightened by the terror they saw there. They held her wrists in such a way she was forced to hold their erect shafts - her agonised grip causing both to ejaculate over her face. At that moment, in the ecstasy of his release one of the sailors relaxed his hold on her hand Catherine quickly pulled out the gag from her mouth and began to scream loudly. Nearby she could hear the agitated whinnies from the donkey stable. 

Suddenly there was a huge commotion behind her and she could just see the eunuch, accompanied by another man, rushing into the room. The sailor who was on top of her turned to have his skull cracked by the eunuch’s flailing club and he fell heavily to the floor, taking her with him. The others were no match and after a brief struggle retreated to cower in the arched recess of the khazneh nearby. Dropping his club the black eunuch was about to set upon them with his sword, but stopped when Catherine screamed again as she tried to roll away from the unconscious sailor. She was at the point of collapse and barely felt the hands lifting her by the armpits. Her fear made her struggle and she tried to twist away. 

The stranger stopped pulling and letting her slump to the floor again allowed her to recover somewhat. “I am sorry. I should have been more gentle. Let me help you.” He was speaking in Italian, and there was something in the timbre of his voice that drove all further resistance from her body. She began to cry, and uncontrollable waves of anguished moans resounded in the small courtyard. The donkeys joined in. The younger man then lifted Catherine up gently and sat her on the small elevated carpet-covered divan. After dipping a clean piece of her own torn garment in the courtyard fountain, he began washing her face and neck. She was shivering with anger and pain. Their eyes met.

“Thank you,” her voice was hoarse as she struggled to speak. 

He placed a finger on her lips. “Shhhh do not try to talk.” He left her for a moment to enter the living quarters of the house and returned soon after with a towel and a clean, long cotton shirt. He lifted her arms and drew it down over them and her head. Lifting her hair to pull it outside the collar he could already see bruises forming on her lower back and buttocks. He spat at the sailor on the ground.

At this point four of the city’s night-watchmen entered the house having been alerted to Catherine’s non-appearance by the gate-guards. They questioned the eunuch and quickly dragged the two terrified sailors from their bolthole and bound their hands. Once these two were on their feet they were forced to carry the larger sailor - by now showing signs of consciousness - and with some effort all three were herded into the night to be taken to the nearest watchtower.

The stranger and the eunuch gently lifted Catherine and carried her down the hill to the western gate and onwards to Bitchnin’s bano. To Catherine it was all an excruciating haze, but she remembered on reaching her quarters being fully bathed and lain on her bed, a cup of sherbet and opium erasing the present.

The morning came all too quickly and Catherine awoke to find Miriam, Ali Bitchnin’s favourite consort, touching her gently. “Catherine. Come. The men are waiting for you in the courtyard. You need to get washed and dressed and to meet them outside. Are you able?” 

Catherine smiled at the strong West Country accent of Miriam, who in a past life had been Lucy Taunton from Bristol. 

“How are you feeling, would you like some food?” 

Catherine shrugged and then shook her head. Her whole body ached as she tried to sit on the bed’s edge before standing. There was blood on the bed linen and she immediately tried to cover it, embarrassed. Two of the harem slaves then came in and led her to the bath where they washed her gently. Once dry she was dressed and a full veil placed over her head. She then made her way to the courtyard where two men were sitting on a divan. 

Murad Corbasi stood up at her approach and turned to introduce his companion. “This is Djivo, your saviour last night and who has come to check up on you.”

Catherine smiled weakly, the memory searing. 

“We need you to come with us.” Murad was business-like, and Catherine recognised a degree of urgency in his voice.

Just then she felt the strength leaving her legs and she stumbled. The younger man rushed forward to help her. “No.” Catherine pushed him away. “Please get out. Leave me alone.” 

The men retreated slightly and Djivo’s countenance went sullen with the abrupt rejection. It was all Catherine could do to avoid crying out in agony as they watched her regain her balance. “What do you want?” She asked angrily whilst looking at Murad, who seemed agitated at having had to wait.

“Surgeon Cullen. Yanse - Murat Reis I mean, will have explained to you that Islamic justice is swift and forthright. You must come with us to identify your assailants formally.”

It was Catherine’s turn to pull back. “I cannot.” She wanted to run away and hide. 

Murat moved forward and gently took her hand. “You have no choice. Come!” 

The two men escorted her from the inner courtyard and supporting her weight lifted her onto a mulecart that was waiting outside. Her eyes caught the younger man’s but averted quickly lest her anger hurt him again. They left the compound with an accompaniment of marines and soon reached the city wall. Just to the side of the bab-el-oued she saw the three sailors who had attacked her, standing with their hands bound behind them and surrounded by a troop of Janissaries. Also present was Ali Bitchnin accompanied by the eunuch and his personal guard. All eyes diverted to Catherine as she arrived and was helped down from the cart. She winced as her legs took her weight, but was determined not to show any emotion. In any event they would have had difficulty seeing it as her face was nearly fully covered by the black silk yashmak. 

A white haired ulema spoke to Murad before turning to Catherine. “Are these the three men who attacked you?”

Catherine moved forward and looked at each of the sailors directly, lingering in front of the larger man. His head was bandaged but she recognised him from the brief moment in the street before he attacked her. Instead of the sneering scowl that she remembered his face now was rigid with fear. She stood there and looked at him for a long time before slowly nodding. She then turned to walk away but Murad stepped forward and stopped her. The ulema turned to Djivo and the eunuch for confirmation. Both of them also nodded. Standing beside Ali Bitchnin was a cadi, a religious judge, who had been watching the proceedings silently. After a brief discussion with the ulema he suddenly barked an order. Two of the marines of the ta’ifat al ru’sa drew their swords and prodded the big sailor forward. Murad Corbasi detached himself from her side and walked to place himself directly in front of the frightened man whose arms were then pinioned by the marines. He threw a quick glance at Catherine before drawing a jewelled dagger. In an instant of flashing steel he had split the man’s breeches and in a rapid upward slash separated him from his testicles and most of his penis. For a moment there was no sound but then the realisation and pain of what had been done forced an animal’s cry from the sailor’s mouth. Blood began spurting everywhere and Catherine turned away in horror. 

Ali Bitchnin forced her to resume looking. “This form of punishment is something the Turks have learnt to their cost from the beni ‘abbas tribesmen who control some of the mountain passes outside the city and who take great pleasure in performing it on any live Janissary that falls into their hands. You are being honoured as normally we leave castration to Coptic Christians.”

Catherine watched as the sailor was forced to walk at sword point along the narrow causeway leading away from the bab-el oued, the fountain of blood marking his passage into Hades. After about twenty minutes he finally collapsed and was left to bleed to death. Nobody else had moved and the other two sailors both began vomiting with fear. Catherine was suprised when they were dragged back through the bab-el oued. She turned to Murad Corbasi. “Where are they being taken?”

Murad’s gaze was fixed on the city walls. “As we like to say in Algiers, Surgeon Cullen, ‘the gate is hungry’. Look up there. Do you see the hooks in the wall. Those are these men’s fate. You English speakers people call it ganching.”

Catherine looked upward at the walls to the left of the gate’s watchtower. Embedded into the masonry, some twenty feet above ground level, were a series of irregularly-placed large curved iron meat-hooks, barbed at their points like a fishing lure. She had noticed these before on her journeys into the city and had been told previously of their purpose but in all the time she had been in Algiers had never witnessed their use. Presently there was a flurry of activity at the top of the watchtower about fifteen feet above the first series of hooks. The first sailor, his hands and feet bound, was being lifted, screaming loudly, by his ankles and armpits by two soldiers. Holding him as close to the wall as possible they suddenly released him to drop. He impaled on the lowest row of hooks. His agony was mercifully short lived in that the first hook his falling body encountered harpooned him through the chest - he hung there like a squirming worm for a few minutes before death came quickly to his rescue. The second sailor was not so fortunate. He appeared to roll as he was dropped and his descent ended on the first row of hooks where he was pinioned through the pelvis facing skywards. His piercing cry intensified as his upper body arched downwards towards the ground dragged by its own weight. The agonised jerking spasms continued for some time before he finally lost consciousness.

Catherine again turned to Murad. She noticed he was still cleaning his dagger. “What will happen to him?”

“He will drift into and out of hell until he dies and will remain there until his flesh rots and the weight pulls him off the barb. Sometimes in a day or so, if he is still alive, one of his compatriots will get him ‘off the hook’ by shooting him.” Murad guided her back to the mulecart and lifted her up. They then made for the Bitchnin seraglio and once inside the gates were joined by Ali Bitchnin and his retinue.

“Surgeon Cullen,” Bitchnin spoke in Italian “from now on I am delegating young Ahmed here to escort you.” He pulled forward a young man, with intense Arabic features but peculiarly blond hair. “I know of his expertise with a sword and I have his sworn oath to lay down his life, if necessary, while discharging his duty to you. This is an expensive gesture on my part as I had to pay the Aga dearly for his services as a dragoman.”

Catherine thanked Bitchnin and gave the young man a smile. Turning around she saw that Djivo was about to leave. She watched him and for the first time was struck by his handsomness. Their eyes met and she had to look away as she felt he could read her thoughts. She let out an audible sigh of relief when all attention was diverted as Ali Bitchnin barked an order. The eunuch Suleyman Agassi, who had accompanied Catherine the night before, was suddenly taken hold of by three marines and his feet locked into the nearby foot stock. They then set about a severe bastinado until finally halted by Bitchnin who then spoke directly to Catherine. “He deserted you, and thus my trust. The beating will remind him of his duty in future.”

Catherine could not bear to watch the eunuch’s agony and turned to Murad. “That Italian, Djivo. What does he do?”

Murad laughed. “I see you are taken. He is Ragusan actually and was on the galley we captured. He is an architect by training and has been appointed by the Divan as a Master of Water to the city. This is a very important position which will allow him great freedoms but one which means he is unlikely to be ransomed readily. At least its better than being chained to the oar.”

Catherine smiled and watched as Murad began to walk away. He stopped suddenly, shaking his head slightly before turning to come back to her. He looked disturbed. “I have one other bit of information.” Catherine waited for him to continue.“ Yanse’s . . . Murat Reis’s galleys were surprised by a superior fleet of the Knights of Malta led by Brother Francesco Carafa their Captain General. Murat was captured and is incarcerated in Valetta.”

Catherine had come to like the Dutchman and she did not hide her concern. “What will happen to Murat?”

Murad was matter of fact. “He is alive but the Knight’s have placed a price on his freedom. Thankfully the Maltese brethren are pragmatic, unlike the butchers of Saint Stephen who would have dispatched him with great pain.”

Chapter 14 

Seville, Spain. 23rd May 1632

It was a glorious early summer evening as worshipers left the Convent of the Merced Calzada and began spilling out onto the nearby streets. They had been attending a thanksgiving mass for the safe passage of the latest bullion fleet from the Indies and their relieved excitement, like that of many other parishes throughout Seville, was palpable. Indeed the excitement had been mounting since the fast sloop bearing the news of the fleet’s impending arrival had entered the Guadalquivir nearly ten days previously. It was only earlier that day, however, that the treasure ships had finally docked, announcing the fact with multiple salvoes from their cannon. After inspection by the Casa de contratacion the ships had begun unloading their lucrative cargo.

The quayside was a forest of masts and rigging - for in addition to the returning fleet, ships from Hamburg and Lubeck, Ragusa and Genoa, Saint Malo and Amsterdam were waiting to discharge their own wares onto the already stockpiled Arenal wharf for transport on the next flotilla returning to Mexico. The worshipers joined hundreds of others coming from the river banks where they had watched the unloading. Shopkeepers and jewellers, gun smiths and thieves all rushing and chattering. Some would go to the Alcaiceria quarter, others to the street of the Francs or to the gradas of the Orangery, or others still to the newer Hall of Merchants with their estimates of potential profits. Others would make for the taverns of the Court of the Elms where the law-breakers amongst them would boast to comrades of past deeds and of the rich pickings ahead. The women dressed in brightly coloured silks and linens - most adopting the peculiar fashion of exposing just one eye from behind a veil - spent most of their time avoiding the rubbish that littered the streets. The peculiar female Sevillian gait of walking very upright with short prancing steps made these manoeuvres and their efforts to keep up with their menfolk a comic spectacle for any casual observer.

Given all the noise and excitement very few people took notice as a number of cloaked individuals appeared to abruptly leave the thronged street linking the convent with the centro and disappear like shadows through the outer doorway of the Iglesias of San Antonio Abad. Once inside the small off-street atrium these individuals quickly removed their cloaks and swords and entered the church proper by pushing aside the heavy leather aprons that covered the openings in the ornate wooden inner door. They then silently took their places in a small chapel to the right of the doorway on a series of low chairs which surrounded a low table. Two of the men had remained in the atrium in deep discussion for about ten minutes before joining the others.

“My apologies, brothers, about delaying you all.” Dom Rodrigue Lopez de Pacheco, the Clavero or Lieutenant Grand Master of the Calatrava Order, took his place and gradually his vision grew accustomed to the near darkness of the vaulted crypt. Behind him the pyramid-eye - painted in the centre of a carving of the sun that decorated the wall above a small altar on the left of the chapel - suddenly flickered in the candlelight as if awakening to watch their movements. “Thank you for coming at short notice. I arranged for us to meet here in the Templar Chapel rather than our own headquarters as the discussions we have must remain absolutely secret. You brothers, as members of both the Council of the Calatrava Order and of the Holy Sepulchre, are the most trusted.”

A number of heads nodded with the compliment and all leant forward to better hear the quietly spoken words of the Clavero.

“It has come to my attention that our brothers in Sant’Iago may have stumbled upon intelligence of some of the most important relics in Christendom. . .” 

There was no warmth in Dom Rodrigue’s description of their fellow Order of Knights as he went on to recount with great accuracy the history and the efforts, so far, of the Sant’Iago order in trying to retrieve the Scrolls including the role of Djivo Slavujovic. There were audible gasps of astonishment when he had finished.

“From whom did you learn all this?” The aquiline face of Don Pedro de Arce - the Chief Inquisitor of the order - appeared contorted as he tried to suppress the betrayal he felt.

“A recent communiqué from the Count of Monterey in Rome detailed the Count’s accidental encounter with gossip of the Scrolls and his subsequent investigation of its veracity. Monterey arranged for the communiqué to be delivered to me by a certain Captain de Contreras. This was deliberate on his part as he wanted de Contreras, in person, to relate his story about how he had befriended Dom Djivo Slavujovic in Naples and accompanied him to Sicily. It was a casual conversation with de Contreras that gave Monterey the first clue to Sant’Iago’s efforts.”

Don Pedro de Arce was nearly apoplectic at this stage. “Contreras. That sham. I would place no faith in his gossip.”

The Clavero smiled at his comrade. “Dom Pedro, be still. Gasper de Rosales has told me of the animosity between you and Contreras, however, he was only the messenger and Monterey’s intelligence is generally to be believed.”

“Is that the ‘de Contreras’ who relieved the forces at La Mamora?” One of the younger Knights asked.

Dom Rodrigue nodded although a little annoyed at the interruption. “Dom Carlo please let me return to the communiqué. Other confirmation of this intelligence has been provided by one of our most reliable and secret agents. A number of years ago one of the senior council members of Sant’Iago approached me about joining our order. I agreed on condition he would be initiated in secrecy and that he was to continue publicly as a member of their order. The information that he has provided over those years has been of enormous value.” He paused, waiting for the expected reaction.

“What is his name and how can you be sure that they do not have a similar spy in our ranks?” Dom Pedro jumping to his feet, once again interjected - more angry at the fact that he had not been consulted before now.

“I am sorry Dom Pedro. . .” De Pacheco recognised the hurt in his Inquisitor’s manner “. . .because of the sensitivity it had to be a secret decision, and having discussed my proposal with the Grand Prior we determined that his name will not be released. With regard to the second part of your question I cannot be absolutely sure, hence, as you will have noticed, not all members of our own Council have been invited to this meeting. You, my brothers are the most trusted. ” Everyone relaxed. “I have found out that this Dom Djivo Slavujovic is alive and being held captive in Algiers although his engineering skills have ensured a great deal of freedom. I plan to effect a ransom approach on behalf of our King.” The Clavero stopped speaking as he reached into an inside pocket to pull out a folio. Opening it he withdrew the last letter of Djivo’s father to King Philip, and passed it to the others to read. “Once he is in our hands we will extract the information.”

“He appears to be a very cautious individual, even with his own brother Knights,” one of the others spoke as he handed back the letter. 

De Pacheco nodded. “I agree Dom Diego. If the ransom attempt fails then he is to be killed.”

“We could continue the search ourselves, then. It would bring great honour to Calatrava.” Dom Pedro by now was far more eager. 

The Clavero paused for a moment. “Yes that is possible. But if the Scrolls are found, they must be destroyed.”

“But why? ” The voices rose up almost in unison.

Dom Rodrigue held up his hand and then turning it palm upwards indicated for the Grand Prior of the Order, Lord Cardinal Albornoz - the nominee of the Abbot of Morimond in France who still had control over the Spanish Order’s spiritual affairs - to stand. The Cardinal rose from his seat and after bowing his head slightly in the direction of the Clavero - this had been the reason for their discussions in the atrium earlier - began to speak in a grave voice. The words echoed off the chapel walls. “There is strong evidence to suggest that Our Lord Jesus Christ was a learned and holy rabbi of a secret and virulently anti-Roman Jewish sect called the Nasoreans and that he sacrificed his life to protect the military leader of the sect, one Jesus Bar’abbas, so that that individual could continue the war against the Romans. There is a heresy abroad amongst some misguided scholars which suggests that the man called Bar’abbas, which literally means ‘Son of God’, and who was released by Pilate, was in fact James the Apostle. The same heretics also suggest that James was an actual blood relation of our Lord Jesus Christ. Our own theologians do agree, however, that the pressure put on Pilate to offer the release of either Bar’abbas or Jesus was orchestrated to ensure the terrorist leader’s freedom. It is likely, however, that by this act of self-sacrifice and the Godly nature of his teachings and works, Jesus provided the focus for the early devotion to his memory and establishment of the Church.” 

The Grand Prior paused for a moment, his attention caught by the flickering eye on the wall behind Dom Rodrigue. “It is also now thought that the Bar’nabas ordered by the early church in Jerusalem to seek out Saint Paul in Antioch and to accompany him was in fact Bar’abbas or James. Evidence pointing to his importance and militant reputation was evident when the people of Lystra saw Bar’nabas as the worldly reincarnation of an avenging Zeus whereas Paul they saw as Hermes his messenger.” He coughed to clear his throat, “Bar’nabas and Paul soon fell out with each other over whether an aggressive or peaceful policy should be adopted by the early Christians and separated. It is now thought that all the information documenting the true relationship of Bar’abbas and Jesus was recorded by Saint Paul in order to defend himself at a later date with the Nasorean elders back in Jerusalem. When Paul set sail to preach in Macedonia he left these diaries in the safekeeping of Caprus in Alexandria Troas. He was later, very anxious to retrieve these as was obvious by his second letter to Timothy.” 

Albornaz paused and looked around the table at the impassive faces. He wondered to himself if any of the Knights could recall their New Testament. He then continued, “Whether Timothy did manage to retrieve them or not is uncertain but they next surfaced at the Council of Nicea in the hands of Arius. When that schismatic lost the crucial vote on the theological direction of the Church the diaries and many other Gnostic documents were destroyed in order to preserve its precarious unity. Some of you brethren are aware of other proofs which have also been suppressed. It is now our understanding that the forma produced by Pilate’s officers gives not only a detailed description of Jesus and James Bar’abbas but like Paul’s diaries also alludes to their true relationship and the respective roles they played in the Nasorean sect. For the sake of the Church, if such a document still exists, it must be found and destroyed.” Albornoz sat down. There was silence for a brief moment before the questions began again in earnest. 

At this point de Pacheco held his hand up. “Brothers. The Church is once again under its greatest threat. The Protestant forces in the Low Countries and Germany are gaining victory after victory. The smallest possibility of even a more major fundamental theological schism occurring as the result of publication of such a parchment would undermine all our efforts. It must be destroyed. I am also concerned that if the Scrolls fall into the sweaty hands of our brothers in Sant’Iago they will use it to further their own ends - at our expense.” He stopped to look at all the Knights - one by one fixing their gaze. “I have taken it upon myself to direct Don Gonzalo Munoz Trevino of Cuidad Real to undertake the mission to Algiers. He understands only that it is of extreme importance to our Order that Slavujovic is either redeemed into our custody or dispatched. Do I have your agreement?”

All at the table nodded their heads. De Pacheco stood up and circling the chapel kissed each of them on both cheeks before retaking his seat. Some of the Knights began discussing the Cardinal’s story amongst themselves and he waited for a lull in the conversation.

“Good. That issue is settled for the present but there is another that is of equal importance to us here in Seville.” The Clavero took out another small folio from his breast pocket. “The city is growing fast and contrary to many rumours the amount of bullion clearing through our port from the New World continues to grow. However, most of the profits are being taken out by foreign merchants and bankers, or by those who claim Spanish citizenship such as the French Comtois or Walloons. Even the Genovese have made an art-form of marrying into Spanish families in order to suck us dry. As a result, although we appear to have the busiest port in all Spain we are seeing very little return. Take for example the mercury from our own mines at Almedan, used for extracting the silver abroad - the Fuggers derive most benefit because we do not want to concern ourselves with the business. This situation . . .”

Dom Rodrigue paused as he leant forward and began unbinding the folio he had taken from his coat pocket. Removing some loose pages he passed one to each Knight. As they looked at them he noted the surprised reactions on most of their faces and watched for a moment as some pursed their lips and exhaled short bursts of air. “. . . this situation cannot be allowed to continue. The pages before you contain a summary of the bullion cargo leaving our city. Although our council’s edict of 1628 precludes tradesmen or their sons from joining the Order it is now proposed that Calatrava consider admitting some merchants of noble blood as well as our military recruits. A distinction could certainly be made between say bankers and mere tradesmen. Using our influence we could then establish them among the ‘Twenty-four’ as leading agents in the city and thus control the profits. I want you to consider this for our next council meeting. Thank you for your attention.”

De Pacheco stood up and turning to the altar genuflected to the pyramid-eye before leaving the chapel. The others followed suit and soon the church was silent again - no shadows moving, no noise.

©R.Derham 2001,2009

Autonomy

As an eleven year-old I was shipped off – as indeed I have done with my own children – to Irish college for a period of about two weeks during the Summer holidays. In my case it was to Coolea in the West Cork Gaeltacht. Then as now Irish college was a right of passage marking a transition to adolescence and an element of free will in the choices one made. In my case it provided the location for my first heart-crushing love affair ( I wonder if she still has the fairy locket I gave her?) and my first inhaled cigarette in the toilet behind the school. I went ‘green’ with the nausea I felt at the time and two days later began to turn yellow. My parents were called and I was brought home to be installed in the guest bedroom in our house, sick, jaundiced and very sorry for myself. Old Doc Carey , the family doctor called every day to check on my progress. One day I summoned up the courage to ask him whether smoking the cigarette had caused the illness. He hesitated for a moment before replying, “Young fella I should say yes to you as a lesson learnt as to the foolish choice you made in dragging on the fag. But I won’t. No, ladeen, you got infectious hepatitis from one of the other lads, I expect. Or the water.” 

That honesty of response, that recognition by a 60 year-old man of the autonomy of an eleven year-old boy to make choices, even if they were wrong, stayed with me forever and I have tried to be faithful to that moment in my own practice over the years.

Autonomy derives from the Greek autonomia (autos self + nomos Law) but in modern usage has a number of applications. Catriona MacKenzie and Natalie Stoljar in Relational Autonomy: Feminist Perspectives on Autonomy, Agency, and the Social Self (OUP, 2000, 4-5) explain:

"In bioethics autonomy is often equated with informed consent. In rational choice theory, autonomy is equated with voluntary, rational choice. In other contexts, for example, within liberal political theory, autonomy is considered to be an individual right. For liberals of a libertarian persuasion, the right to autonomy is construed as a negative liberty, a right of the individual to freedom from undue interference in the exercise of choice (moral, political, personal, and religious) and in the satisfaction of individual preferences. For Rawlsian liberals, autonomy is understood in Kantian terms as a capacity for rational self-legislation, and is considered to be the defining feature of persons."

Isaiah Berlin explained Kant’s perspective further:

“one of the things Kant believed most fervently was that the one thing which all men could do was to choose between right and wrong. He had begun by thinking that moral choices were dictated by some degree of expertise … But… he was convinced by Rousseau that in moral matters all men are experts. There is no need for expertise; no man, if he is sane at all, ignores the difference between right and wrong – he may be mistaken about what he thinks right, and he may be mistaken about what he thinks wrong, but he knows the difference.” 

It is noteworthy that in the proclamation of the various early Human Rights Charters this Kantian perspective was avoided and individual autonomy is not specifically mentioned reflecting significant political reservations about self versus national government even in the most liberal of democratic countries. It is only recently that international conventions such as the Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (Adopted by General Assembly resolution 61/106 of 13 December 2006) in recognizing the importance for persons with disabilities of their individual autonomy and independence, including the freedom to make their own choices declares in Article 3 that as a General Principle there should be (a) Respect for inherent dignity, individual autonomy including the freedom to make one’s own choices, and independence of persons.

When you think about it autonomy is the wall on which all rights are hung. Without the recognition that an individual will to distinguish between right and wrong is the core principle of any human rights instrument then any delegated rights to that individual will flounder in a sea of misappropriation. 

The Simurgh and the Nightingale (Part 7)

Chapter 11 

Ragusa, Dalmatian Coast. 30th July 1631

Dom Miho Slavujovic, merchant of Ragusa, friend and ally of Spain sat in his office which overlooked the busy harbour. In front of him was Djivo’s last letter from Toledo. He did not know whether his son was alive or dead and tears welled up in his eyes as he attached his seal to yet another plea to the Master of the Sant’Iago Order begging his help to effect the release of Djivo. Miho had also sent a letter to King Philip of Spain about six weeks previously, reminding him of his family’s services to his grandfather and entreating him to help. He had heard nothing.

Getting up from his bureau he walked to the far corner of the room and began pushing a small bookcase sideways. Once satisfied he stooped down and lifted a loose floorboard at the spot where the bookcase had stood. The creaking timbers called attention to his actions and this caused him to look up and around furtively. Happy that he was unobserved he searched for and found a small metal lever. Pulling it back, a section of the nearby wall - slowly and silently - swung out to reveal a concealed vault. Taking a lighted candle Miho entered the dark room and after a period of rummaging returned with a small package in his hand. This had been sent by Djivo before leaving Italy for Spain. The accompanying letter explained that these were his most valuable possessions and he wished them stored in absolute safety. After looking at it for a while Miho began to open the package, feeling somehow he was invading his son’s privacy but even more worrying, it felt like an admission of his youngest son’s loss or death. The package contained his family ring and the espada insignia of the Sant’Iago order as well as a beautiful Arabic ceremonial curved dagger in which was embedded a number of fine emeralds and diamonds that glistened in the light. Miho marvelled at the beauty of the dagger and its possible worth. On pulling the dagger from its sheath he saw that a carefully folded letter was wrapped around the blade. He gently unravelled it and began reading.

It was a letter written in Italian from the Archbishop of Durazzo, from his base in Gravina, to his cousin Giovanni Andrea Comneno. There was an detailed summary of the ongoing negotiations with the descendants of Ladislas, King of Naples, over whether they or the Comneno family had the right to use the title Duke of Durazzo. Ladislas had ceded the Dukedom of Durazzo and his other Dalmatian rights to Venice in 1409 and the Comneno family had been given the title by the Venetian State for services rendered. The argument was further complicated by the fact that the old fiefdom of Anjou-Durazzo had been dissolved by Stefan Dusan, Emperor of Serbia, when he had conquered Albania and introduced Serbian privileges and titles. The Archbishop pointed out in the letter that he had determined that the offending abuse of the title had only begun being been used for the first time by John, son of Charles d’Anjou, King of Naples, after the Angevians had surrendered Durazzo to Stefan in 1343. The Archbishop wrote that he was using all his influence with the Papal authorities to try and have the situation resolved.

The information on the machinations surrounding the Dukedom of Durazzo was followed by some family information and Miho could not make out the reason why Djivo had gone to such lengths to conceal the letter. The last section was written in Greek and Miho’s ability to read Greek was poor. The only part he could decipher was a reference to a family friend of the Comnenos from Alexandria called Kevork who was going into the city to meet the Grand Logothete. 

“What city?” Miho pondered aloud as he shook his head. There were a final few lines about negotiations to retrieve some valuable icons, with the local Dey - who had begun converting Durazzo’s church into a mosque - and most of the comments were highly derogatory. The Archbishop intimated that the once thriving city was now a plague-infested swamp of only two hundred dwellings and that the heathen Ottomans were more than welcome to it. Perhaps, Miho thought, Djivo was afraid of the letter falling into Turkish hands and being used against the Angelo-Comneno. Refolding the letter he carefully wrapped it around the dagger and slipped it back in the sheath. It was only then that he lifted the book of what appeared to be scientific writings and began turning its pages. A folded page of parchment slipped from between its centre leaves and floated to the floor. Stooping to retrieve it he recognised that it was very old and written in what appeared to be ancient French. He could only decipher the name Syracuse and it was with a grunt of frustration that he replaced the parchment, closed the book, and gathering all the items, resealed them in their package. This he then replaced in the hidden vault. Miho returned to his study, pausing briefly for a glance back into the darkness before gently pushing the wall closed behind him. He relaxed only when the sharp clicking noise indicated that the secret lever had re-engaged. He then repositioned the floor board and cabinet and left for a meeting with his ship captains, one of whom was to carry his letter to Spain along with his cargo of Mamsley wine. 

As he descended the steps of his house to join the throngs of people on the Placa and begin his short walk towards Orlando’s pillar and the Custom House Miho could see the clock tower’s figures about to chime the hour. The sunshine was bright and the mood of the people good. ‘And so it should be,’ he mused to himself. Here was a city surrounded by war and devastation which had abolished torture and slavery and whose welfare system included schools, hospitals and old people’s homes. Executions, in a time where life was considered disposable elsewhere, were so rare an event that they had to bring in a Turkish executioner. The necessity would plunge the entire community into a mood of mourning and gloom. The five hundred or so noble families had ensured that Ragusa had remained wealthy with its control of the shipping and silver trade to the Turks. 

This thought brought a frown to Miho’s forehead. The increasing amount of American silver controlled by the Spanish was undermining Ragusan influence. In addition the Republic’s spies had reported deliberate attempts by the French to flood the Ottoman economy with cheap silver coin forgeries. This would have to be counteracted, if the city was to survive. He made a mental note to discuss this with the council, when they next met. In the distance a cannon roared a welcome to yet another merchant ship.

Miho would have to hurry as he had arranged to join his family in Sipan that evening and needed to catch the evening tide. 

Chapter 12 

Algiers. 2nd August 1631

As the dawn broke Catherine was standing on the fore-deck, exhausted from tending the wounded sailors. Her cotton shift, soaked in the blood and grime of the night’s labours was fluttering in the stiff wind almost as if trying to rid itself, she thought, of the relics of man’s inhumanity. Behind the ship both the galley and merchantman were in close formation, the galley’s broken spars repaired and its heavy cargo dispersed to the other ships to allow greater speed. Most of the captured fishermen had been transferred to man the vacant oar slots so that it could continue the journey. She was gazing at the distant mountains stretching away to the south -east, their snow-capped peaks caught in the early morning sun. Catherine did not hear Murat approach.

“Those are the Djurjura Mountains whose icy heads source the spring rivers of this laughing coast. If you look closely, the lower set of hills nearer the coast are the Sahel separated behind from the higher Atlas by the Metidja marsh. At their base lies Algiers which you will see shortly, once we round the headland,” he pointed out as he joined her by the rail. “It has been a good trip and the rewards will be great. Indeed the capture of the galley has saved your bacon, I expect.”

She turned to look at him and noticed that he had brought her a fresh cotton robe. She accepted it with genuine appreciation. “Thank you. What do you mean about saving me?”

Murat smiled. “As the Spanish galley was a military encounter all slaves and captured booty will go to the Dey and the Divan which means there will be less interest in the other captives.” He stopped suddenly, and ordered his ever attentive grommet to fetch the boatswain. When he arrived there was a hurried conference and Murat seemed particularly insistent. The sailor sped off and he rejoined Catherine.

“What was the problem?” She asked him.

“Our conversation reminded me. I ordered the galley signalled to hoist its old sails and rigging and for all of the fisherman to be returned to this boat.”

Catherine was puzzled. “Why the old sails? Surely they are useless.”

“As I said to you before, everything in Algiers is controlled by the various guilds. The liman-reis or port captain and his guild are entitled to all sail and rigging of captured ships. The good equipment will be transferred to my other boat and sold at a profit later. The port authorities will have to make do with the cannon shredded remnants.” Murat stopped and began to point excitedly. Look over there. Behold El-Djazair. . . Algiers, the jewel of the tha’aliba and Khayr al-Din.”

Catherine turned to gaze on the whitest city she had ever seen. A cascade of pearly buildings descended from the low green hills to the sea. It was surrounded by an impressive wall with many watchtowers. Ahead of them was a large mole connecting the city with a small island and she could make out a number of minarets rising high into the sky. There appeared to be about ten ships of various sizes anchored in the roads. They and the city sparkled in the sunshine. “What or who is Khayr al-Din?”

“Khayr al-Din is better known as Babarossa, or Redbeard, one of the Greek pirate brothers who occupied the city at the request of the local tha’aliba tribe in 1516 and who defended it, fighting off the Spanish and Berbers of Kouko to take full control in 1525 in the name of the Ottoman Sultan. He was then appointed Beylerbey and High Admiral of the Turkish navy. An inspiration to us all.” Murat laughed loudly as he pointed once again at the city. “Do you see the minaret outside the walls at the north western end?” Catherine nodded. “That is the personal villa and mosque of Ali Bitchnin. The hospital and bano are inside the city surrounded by a high wall.”

The mole was rapidly approaching and Catherine could make out a small fast galley racing out to meet them. Suddenly the two cannon beneath the Yildirim’s fore-deck bellowed. She turned to Murat . “Do not worry," he said. "It's just a greeting. Do you see that small island at the end of the mole? That is the old Spanish penon and it is where the taiffe or league of sea captains have their meetings. Most of the captives will come to hate it as they will likely spend their winters hauling rock to repair the mole.” 

Catherine said nothing, caught as she was in thoughts of her own destiny. Murat was still talking with a good deal of excitement in his voice. “Do you see those two ships in the roads with white flags? They are ransom ships come to negotiate. All in all Algiers is a very busy city.”

The rest of the morning was full of frenzied activity. With the direction of the pilot galley the Yildirim and its sister ship negotiated a passage through the busy harbour approach and rounding the southern end of the mole, anchored in the protected harbour. The Spanish galley was brought directly to the slipways of the shipyard gates at the eastern end of the harbour-side city wall. The galley chusma after full documentation were marched to the Grande bano and almost immediately the galley was stripped of every possible item of value. 

The captives detained on the Yildirim and her sister ship were brought on deck - most of the men for the first time in the entire journey - and after adjusting their eyes to the intense light were herded into small galleys and brought ashore to the mole. Once fully accounted for and chained at their necks they were marched along the mole to the city walls. After entering the mole gate they were met by a Janissary mehterhane band with their ‘folds’ of drum, clarinet, trumpet and cymbal players. The noise of the welcome was added to by the loud cheering by men and the high-pitched cries of women. This cacophony accompanied the chain all the way to the zoco.

Murat had insisted that Catherine remain onboard to accompany the injured ashore, once all the captured cargo had been safely unloaded and transferred to Ali Bitchnin’s carts which had rushed down the mole past the chained captives. When this was done the injured surgeon - by now reasonably stable on his wooden peg - and four others, one of whom had lost an eye, were taken ashore. Murat and Catherine joined them in the longboat and on landing Murat had disappeared into the taiffe’s tower to give his report. Shortly afterwards Catherine noticed a small profusely sweating man approaching them. He spoke in Arabic to Suarez whom he had obviously recognised. After what appeared to be a long explanation the man turned to Catherine and spoke in English. “My name is Frizzel. I am the English Consul here in Algiers. I gather you were taken in Baltimore. How many are there of you? I will need to inform London. Now maybe they will send me more funds. Your arrival is most opportune.”

Catherine took an immediate dislike to Frizzel. His only concern appeared to be his report and justifying his existence and not the actual welfare of the hostages. Before she had a chance to answer him, he scurried away when he sighted Murat coming back to join them. 

“What did that dung-beetle want?” Murat asked. The hobbling ship’s surgeon explained. Murat glared at the departing Frizzel before turning to Catherine. “I would not put much faith in that man for your freedom. He almost welcomes the arrival of captives so that he can demand greater expenses from England. These are spent on whores and whiskey and not on helping his fellow countrymen.” Murat waited as the injured men were loaded onto a cart, then lifted Catherine to sit her on the tailgate and ordered the driver to move out. They followed the other carts into the city only to immediately leave again by the bab-el-oeud or western gate to reach the bano of Ali Bitchnin. Walking alongside the cart Murat pointed out the various landmarks but Catherine sagged with tiredness and was asleep by the time they reached their destination - dreaming of home.

©R.Derham 2001,2009