players.
A brutish Wallachian fellow named Dragan of Brasov—the same Dragan the tavern owner in Wallachia had mentioned.
An Oriental named Lao from the Chin lands at the end of the Silk Road.
The champion of Muscovy: a grim fellow with a hard wrinkled face and a perpetually downturned mouth. As he ascended the stage, the little prince Ivan clapped loudly and vigorously.
A handsome Hindu prince from the Moghul Empire named Nasiruddin Akbar. He had deep brown skin and a slight build and was reputed to have played chess since he had been an infant.
There was an old and gnarled librarian from the House of Wisdom in Baghdad named Talib. He was the oldest player in the tournament but a most respected one. He had long been an aliyat , the title given to the highest rank of players, those who could see a dozen moves ahead in a given game.
And last of all, there were the local Moslem heroes, two of them.
The first of these was the palace champion, a handsome young man of royal birth named Zaman. He was a cousin of the Sultan’s and had only recently attained the rank of aliyat , the youngest ever to achieve the title.
The second was Ibrahim of Constantinople, and when his name was uttered a great roar went up from the kitchen staff watching the announcement ceremony from the wings. Ibrahim was the people’s champion, the winner of a chess tournament that had been held in Constantinople the previous year. He was about the same age as his compatriot, Zaman, perhaps in his mid-twenties, but there the similarities ended. Where Zaman was dashing, well dressed and regal, Ibrahim was emaciated, dirty and hunched; a peasant. He had no formal chess ranking.
When it was all over, sixteen men stood on the stage facing the assembled crowd, accepting its applause and adulation: men from every corner of the civilised world, representing their kings, their faiths, their nations.
Over the din, the sadrazam called, ‘Tomorrow morning, a draw will be held to determine the first-round matches! Each match will consist of seven games, the winner being the first player to win four of the seven games. All matches will be played in the Ayasofya with the spectacular chess sets created by the renowned artist Michelangelo Buonarroti. The winner of the tournament will take home one of those chess sets as a trophy for his king. Play well, gentlemen, for your people’s pride depends on you! Ladies and gentlemen, honour the champions, and may the best man win!’
The crowd’s applause was deafening.
As the cheering reached its height, I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Elsie. Her new friend Zubaida had returned and was at her side.
‘Bessie!’ Elsie said. ‘Come on! Zubaida says there are fireworks to be set off shortly above the Fourth Courtyard! Let’s sneak out there and get a good spot.’
My teacher heard this exchange and at my beseeching look said, ‘Oh, go on.’
We scurried away from the banquet area, heading for the rearmost courtyard. We dashed through the lattice-walled arcade that separated the Third Courtyard from the Fourth and slipped through one of its ornate gates and beheld the rear courtyard: some stairs led down to a broad lawn overlooking the Bosphorus. A striking oblong reflecting pool lay at the base of the stairs and off to the right stood a lone white building (which I would later learn was the Catholic embassy).
All of a sudden, with a shrill whistling noise, the first firework rocketed into the sky, fired from a position atop the latticed arcade. It burst in a dazzling star-like shape and we heard the crowd in the other courtyard ooh and ahh with delight. This, it appeared, was the signal to bring all the guests into the Fourth Courtyard for the fireworks show, for at that moment some ushers pushed three other gates open.
And at that exact moment, I saw something in the shallow pool and with a start, I caught my breath—
Suddenly there came shouts.
They were followed by a rush of movement at the gate behind
A brutish Wallachian fellow named Dragan of Brasov—the same Dragan the tavern owner in Wallachia had mentioned.
An Oriental named Lao from the Chin lands at the end of the Silk Road.
The champion of Muscovy: a grim fellow with a hard wrinkled face and a perpetually downturned mouth. As he ascended the stage, the little prince Ivan clapped loudly and vigorously.
A handsome Hindu prince from the Moghul Empire named Nasiruddin Akbar. He had deep brown skin and a slight build and was reputed to have played chess since he had been an infant.
There was an old and gnarled librarian from the House of Wisdom in Baghdad named Talib. He was the oldest player in the tournament but a most respected one. He had long been an aliyat , the title given to the highest rank of players, those who could see a dozen moves ahead in a given game.
And last of all, there were the local Moslem heroes, two of them.
The first of these was the palace champion, a handsome young man of royal birth named Zaman. He was a cousin of the Sultan’s and had only recently attained the rank of aliyat , the youngest ever to achieve the title.
The second was Ibrahim of Constantinople, and when his name was uttered a great roar went up from the kitchen staff watching the announcement ceremony from the wings. Ibrahim was the people’s champion, the winner of a chess tournament that had been held in Constantinople the previous year. He was about the same age as his compatriot, Zaman, perhaps in his mid-twenties, but there the similarities ended. Where Zaman was dashing, well dressed and regal, Ibrahim was emaciated, dirty and hunched; a peasant. He had no formal chess ranking.
When it was all over, sixteen men stood on the stage facing the assembled crowd, accepting its applause and adulation: men from every corner of the civilised world, representing their kings, their faiths, their nations.
Over the din, the sadrazam called, ‘Tomorrow morning, a draw will be held to determine the first-round matches! Each match will consist of seven games, the winner being the first player to win four of the seven games. All matches will be played in the Ayasofya with the spectacular chess sets created by the renowned artist Michelangelo Buonarroti. The winner of the tournament will take home one of those chess sets as a trophy for his king. Play well, gentlemen, for your people’s pride depends on you! Ladies and gentlemen, honour the champions, and may the best man win!’
The crowd’s applause was deafening.
As the cheering reached its height, I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Elsie. Her new friend Zubaida had returned and was at her side.
‘Bessie!’ Elsie said. ‘Come on! Zubaida says there are fireworks to be set off shortly above the Fourth Courtyard! Let’s sneak out there and get a good spot.’
My teacher heard this exchange and at my beseeching look said, ‘Oh, go on.’
We scurried away from the banquet area, heading for the rearmost courtyard. We dashed through the lattice-walled arcade that separated the Third Courtyard from the Fourth and slipped through one of its ornate gates and beheld the rear courtyard: some stairs led down to a broad lawn overlooking the Bosphorus. A striking oblong reflecting pool lay at the base of the stairs and off to the right stood a lone white building (which I would later learn was the Catholic embassy).
All of a sudden, with a shrill whistling noise, the first firework rocketed into the sky, fired from a position atop the latticed arcade. It burst in a dazzling star-like shape and we heard the crowd in the other courtyard ooh and ahh with delight. This, it appeared, was the signal to bring all the guests into the Fourth Courtyard for the fireworks show, for at that moment some ushers pushed three other gates open.
And at that exact moment, I saw something in the shallow pool and with a start, I caught my breath—
Suddenly there came shouts.
They were followed by a rush of movement at the gate behind
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