Thieves of the Black Sea. Joe O'Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ looked at one another, gulped down their water, and then threw down their glasses hard and watched as they shattered.

      The deck was quickly covered in shards of broken ceramic, and just as quickly, the clan resumed singing and laughing.

      “Ah, that is the Greek way. We say a toast to our fallen friend and then break the glass as a way to say goodbye…to finish it. You understand?”

      “Yes,” the boys answered.

      “Good. The song they sing is a song for the dead. You see, it is not a sad song, but a song to celebrate life! That is our way,” Scopas instructed and then sat back down and urged the boys to do the same.

      “Boys, I have some serious business in Constantinople. I need some assistance, and you just might be the right boys to help me.”

      “What kind of business?” Tariq asked.

      “I’ll explain everything when we dock. Now, enjoy the song and do not be sad!”

      Captain Scopas smiled and tousled the hair on each boy’s head, and then they went about listening to the beautiful singing of the clan.

      Later that night, Scopas made his way to his quarters where he was joined by his wife, Calliope. She was a little younger than he was, with long, dark hair that went down past her shoulders. She was already dressed for bed in a white nightgown and was quietly brushing her hair.

      Scopas sat at the edge of his bed and washed his bare feet in a basin of cold water.

      “There’s something about these boys,” he said to her.

      “What do you mean?”

      “There’s something about these boys that is different. I can’t place my finger on it. They are very wise for their age…and very courageous. I get this feeling they are meant for bigger things.”

      Calliope smiled and continued brushing her hair.

      Scopas was deep in thought.

      “I do not know why it is. I have dreams of them each night and they are constantly in my thoughts. It is very strange. I may ask them to spy for me in Constantinople.”

      Calliope briefly paused brushing her hair and then continued.

      “They remind me of you when you were younger,” she said. “So full of life…if you feel they can help you in Constantinople, then ask them.”

      Scopas thought a moment before answering.

      “You think I am taking advantage of them?” he asked.

      “Of course not.”

      “Then I shall ask for their help.”

      Scopas began to ready himself for bed when his wife finished brushing her hair and went to a small dresser, opened up the top drawer, and took out an object covered in burgundy cloth. She gave the object to Scopas.

      “What is this?” he asked.

      “You’ll see.”

      He unwrapped the object. In his hands was a white chess piece. It was carved from marble in the shape of a king.

      “It was your brother’s. He gave me his favorite chess set just before he died. He said it was to encourage you to play, however, I think it was as if he had a premonition of his own death,” she said somberly.

      Scopas felt the piece in his hand. It was smooth and perfectly carved. His brother had spent over a year carving the board and each individual piece. This king was a representation of the British King William the Conqueror. His brother had been studying medieval history, and his favorite king was William.

      “Elektra plotted her revenge, and so must you, but never forget why you seek your revenge,” she explained to him.

      Scopas felt the piece in his palm. His brother had been a huge advocate of chess since they were both young children. While Scopas was out having adventures and enduring no end of mischief, his brother would be home studying chess strategies or have his nose stuck in some book. The piece brought back so many memories of him trying to teach the finer points of the game to Scopas, but ultimately he didn’t have the aptitude, or the patience, to ever be much competition to his brother.

      “Thank you,” he whispered and kissed her before going to bed.

      Scopas placed the piece in his coat pocket as a token to remember his departed brother.

      CHAPTER

      — 6 —

      A RIPPLE IN THE DESERT

      The rain had stopped and the sun slowly ascended above the horizon. Sanaa sipped on a hot cup of tea with a blanket over her shoulders to keep her warm. Stoking a fire with a stick, her breath disappeared into the crisp morning air.

      Looking across the battlefield, she stared at the spot where she had slain the Black Mamba just days earlier. Her body was still sore and bruised from the battle, and her mind was fatigued. There was a cut on her upper lip that had still not healed. When she spoke, her skin pulled at the edge of the wound, a reminder of the fight to the death she had just endured which had taken every ounce of her strength. To mark the spot where the Mamba had been killed, the Tuareg had boiled his head in a hot cauldron of water and placed the bare skull on a cross for all to see. The tribespeople placed colorful necklaces made of bead, bone, and feather around the skull. It was a grisly token, but a deserved one. The Mamba had terrorized the country for too long, and it gave the tribes-people pride that his skull now sat atop an old, battered piece of wood.

      This monument also paid homage to Sanaa, as she was now a celebrity within every tribe in the region.

      Around her, people began to emerge from their tents to prepare for the day. Soon, more fires would be built.

      Malik had made the decision to stay for a week to allow his warriors to rest and make preparations for their next assault. He was considering marching on Tangier to battle the French, but was still undecided. His indecision was, in some ways, a wise move, as it gave the people a chance to relish their victory and time to heal.

      As Sanaa sipped her tea, she noticed one of their falcons circling in a manner that suggested visitors were approaching. At intervals throughout the day, their falcons flew circles around the perimeter of the encampment, acting as scouts and alerting the tribe to any potential threats.

      She studied the falcon’s movements, which relayed to her that the approaching group was small.

      Returning to her tent, she reached inside to grab her sword. Malik stood by, shaving, as she slung the sword across her chest.

      “We have guests,” she said and left the tent without leaving him time to reply.

      Malik toweled himself off, dressed, grabbed his bō stick, and then joined Sanaa outside.

      Soon, Sanaa spotted a small contingent of about ten people on horseback on the adjoining hillside. The sun was behind them, and they were backlit so their torsos were dark like shadows. One of the horsemen СКАЧАТЬ