realisation that all folk, rich and poor alike, are better off abiding by accepted laws rather than the sword. For only once laws are in place can a society truly flourish: the protection of the law gives a population safety and security, and once people have that, they happily contribute to their society. Farmers farm, warriors train for war, artists paint, playwrights write. People become experts in trades and occupations and so society advances at an even greater rate. All because the people accepted basic laws.’
‘What happens in societies that don’t accept such laws?’
‘They end up marching on the spot,’ Mr Ascham said sadly. ‘Look at Africa. There the native tribes still fight each other with spears and sticks, engaging in raids for food and women. Every time a new tribe wins a battle, society has to start all over again, so there is no progress.’
‘With respect, didn’t you tell me only recently that, ultimately, force prevails?’ I said, not a little cheekily.
My teacher half smiled at me. ‘I’m pleased to see you were paying attention. And you are right, you’ve found a paradox in my argument. The only answer I can give you is this: a society of laws is the best we have come up with, but unfortunately not every society chooses to go down that path.’
We came to the Sultan’s palace, and truly it was a wonder of the world.
We passed through an immense and well-guarded outer gate and stepped out into a wide grassy courtyard shaded by many trees. Through this courtyard stretched a broad curving path that brought us to a second gate in a smaller but still sizeable wall.
This inner gate was called the Gate of Salutation and it was surmounted by two triangular spires that looked to me more European than Ottoman. Our guards explained that the gateway had been designed and built recently by Hungarian architects brought to Constantinople by the Sultan. To my eyes, it looked very Hungarian: overdone and dandyish.
After passing through this gate, we were met by an official party of ministers dressed in red silk robes and high white turbans. Some black African eunuchs stood behind them.
Leading the official party was the sadrazam, the Grand Vizier or chief minister to the Sultan. While the others all wore turbans, the sadrazam alone wore one with a beautiful snow-white heron plume rising from its linen coils. He was an exceedingly tall and thin fellow and he bowed low as our player, Mr Giles, was introduced by a herald.
The herald spoke first in Turkish and then in Greek, which, we were told, would be used as a common language at the tournament: ‘Mr Gilbert Giles! Representative of King Henry the Eighth, King of England, Ireland and France!’
The sadrazam shook Mr Giles’s hand.
‘Gentlemen. Welcome to the city of Constantine,’ he said in English. Forgetting myself, I gasped in surprise at his command of my mother tongue.
This caught the sadrazam’s attention and he spied me. ‘Why, hello, little girl.’ He moved toward me. ‘I am Mustafa. What is your name?’
‘Elizabeth, sir,’ I said, bowing.
‘Are you an enthusiast of chess, Miss Elizabeth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You play?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah, the English.’ He turned to his own group, switching to an archaic form of Latin that I could actually understand. ‘A most bizarre people. Imagine it, girls playing chess. I have even heard that girls go to school there. And they once had a ruling queen.’
His retinue all recoiled as one in shock.
‘You do not have queens in the Moslem world?’ I inquired politely, also in Latin.
The sadrazam whirled at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide at the realisation that I had understood him perfectly.
‘But of course we do,’ he said in Greek, recovering, his eyes cold. ‘Only they do not rule. They are merely vessels for the Sultan’s seed, wombs on legs, useful only for the production of heirs and troublesome the rest of the time.’ He turned from me, our
‘What happens in societies that don’t accept such laws?’
‘They end up marching on the spot,’ Mr Ascham said sadly. ‘Look at Africa. There the native tribes still fight each other with spears and sticks, engaging in raids for food and women. Every time a new tribe wins a battle, society has to start all over again, so there is no progress.’
‘With respect, didn’t you tell me only recently that, ultimately, force prevails?’ I said, not a little cheekily.
My teacher half smiled at me. ‘I’m pleased to see you were paying attention. And you are right, you’ve found a paradox in my argument. The only answer I can give you is this: a society of laws is the best we have come up with, but unfortunately not every society chooses to go down that path.’
We came to the Sultan’s palace, and truly it was a wonder of the world.
We passed through an immense and well-guarded outer gate and stepped out into a wide grassy courtyard shaded by many trees. Through this courtyard stretched a broad curving path that brought us to a second gate in a smaller but still sizeable wall.
This inner gate was called the Gate of Salutation and it was surmounted by two triangular spires that looked to me more European than Ottoman. Our guards explained that the gateway had been designed and built recently by Hungarian architects brought to Constantinople by the Sultan. To my eyes, it looked very Hungarian: overdone and dandyish.
After passing through this gate, we were met by an official party of ministers dressed in red silk robes and high white turbans. Some black African eunuchs stood behind them.
Leading the official party was the sadrazam, the Grand Vizier or chief minister to the Sultan. While the others all wore turbans, the sadrazam alone wore one with a beautiful snow-white heron plume rising from its linen coils. He was an exceedingly tall and thin fellow and he bowed low as our player, Mr Giles, was introduced by a herald.
The herald spoke first in Turkish and then in Greek, which, we were told, would be used as a common language at the tournament: ‘Mr Gilbert Giles! Representative of King Henry the Eighth, King of England, Ireland and France!’
The sadrazam shook Mr Giles’s hand.
‘Gentlemen. Welcome to the city of Constantine,’ he said in English. Forgetting myself, I gasped in surprise at his command of my mother tongue.
This caught the sadrazam’s attention and he spied me. ‘Why, hello, little girl.’ He moved toward me. ‘I am Mustafa. What is your name?’
‘Elizabeth, sir,’ I said, bowing.
‘Are you an enthusiast of chess, Miss Elizabeth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You play?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ah, the English.’ He turned to his own group, switching to an archaic form of Latin that I could actually understand. ‘A most bizarre people. Imagine it, girls playing chess. I have even heard that girls go to school there. And they once had a ruling queen.’
His retinue all recoiled as one in shock.
‘You do not have queens in the Moslem world?’ I inquired politely, also in Latin.
The sadrazam whirled at the sound of my voice, his eyes wide at the realisation that I had understood him perfectly.
‘But of course we do,’ he said in Greek, recovering, his eyes cold. ‘Only they do not rule. They are merely vessels for the Sultan’s seed, wombs on legs, useful only for the production of heirs and troublesome the rest of the time.’ He turned from me, our
Similar Books
