by
harumi In Through the Ages
When Time Flows Back
Japan, Shinjuku Station, 2000 CE
Running had never felt so hard. Hikaru paused halfway inside the station entrance, his sides heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. The people behind him didn’t stop, roughly rushing past him. He felt the bumps and shoves of their bodies against his own, the beeps as they pressed their SUICA passes against the gate sensors reminding him that time still moved, even in those brief seconds between his gasps for air. A sideways glance at his watch revealed the time.
“Crap,” he muttered. Ignoring his aching sides, he slammed his own pass against the gate sensor and rushed forward.
He turned and twisted away from hundreds of people in his rush to the platform, occasionally missing and knocking into them. “Sorry!” he’d shout above the voice of indignation, but Hikaru never looked back. He saw the sign for the Chuo rapid line and put more speed to his steps. As he ran up the stairs, he caught the clock above him. Three forty-seven.
Would he make it? Could he make it? Hikaru grimaced when he found himself stuck behind a hobbling old woman. The people rushing past her did not give him room to get out from behind, and he held back a sigh of exasperation. Touya’s game was scheduled to end at four. He still had another stop before he could transfer to the Sobu line to Ichigaya. Silently, he counted the minutes. Touya wouldn’t wait for him. Not if Hikaru couldn’t catch him.
An opening appeared between the old woman and a couple coming up from the right. He grabbed it, charging forward to race his way to the top. Another glance at the clock showed the hand at ten. Three-fifty. Hikaru arrived at the platform to face a sea of people.
Just in time to see the orange marker of the Chuo rapid train flash past him.
Time seemed to flow slower at that instant. Hikaru bit back a cry of dismay, stopping just short of the platform edge. Now struggling for breath, he watched the train pick up speed, carrying the passengers within past him. As the wind from the moving train blew back to ruffle his hair, Hikaru noticed a group of idle teens his own age, motionless inside the moving train. It was an odd feeling between stillness and movement, as if time had shifted for the people inside.
Then the train was gone. Hikaru blinked when the ground seemed to move beneath him. Perhaps all the running had exhausted him, but he could have sworn that for a short while, time had been moving-not forward-but backward.
In a Meeting Between Rivals
Sparta, Agoge Barracks, 401 BCE
Alkaios held a hand against his stomach to muffle the sounds of his all too demanding stomach. The day’s meals had been inadequate, but then, they always were. The standard portion of flat bread, soft cheese, and the occasional olive barely made a dent in a stomach that felt bottomless. He wasn’t the only one who felt that way though. Every boy felt the same.
Which was why Alkaios was planning to steal what he needed.
If the overseers and honored teachers of the barracks wouldn’t give him what he and his agelai needed, Alkaios, as leader of his agelai, was determined to provide it for them. He crept against the walls of the kitchen. He’d checked earlier that afternoon, and had spotted the stacks of flat bread on the counter. Even three small pieces would provide some relief against the steady pangs of hunger.
He froze in the shadows as he heard the sound of heavy feet heading toward him. If he was caught… Alkaios struggled to maintain even breath. Dion’s screams under the overseer’s whip still rang in his ears. A week had past since then, and news from the other boys said that Dion was still bed prone from the lashes.
The footsteps moved away. Alkaios held his breath, and darted forward, carefully testing the wooden door to make sure that it made no sound as it was pushed back. Then he was inside.
But the stacks of bread were gone.
Alkaios did not have much time to feel frustrated before he felt the touch of a hand against his shoulder. He felt a shriek rush to his throat, but the same hand roughly covered his mouth just in time.
“You’re making too much noise,” came the whisper, barely audible even in the silence of night. Alkaios relaxed. The voice was high, not the deep male voice of one of the overseers. Slowly, Alkaios turned, and found himself eye to eye with a boy close to his own age. Even in the darkness, the other boy’s eyes were bright, the curl of his black hair matching Alkaios’ own.
“Did you… did you see the bread on the counter earlier?” he whispered back.
“Yeah. I ate most of them,” came the reply.
“Most of them? Where are the rest?” Alkaios said, surprised at how calm he sounded. What he really wanted to do however, was to strangle the other boy.
“If you’re too slow, other people get to them first,” said the other boy, unrepentant.
“What about your agelai?” Alkaios asked.
“They wouldn’t share their bread if they’d gotten any, so why should I share mine?”
Shocked at the words, Alkaios didn’t quite know what to say in response to that.
“I came to get bread for me and my agelai,” he said instead.
“Huh. Wish my agelai leader would do something like that for us,” the other boy said. Then he fell silent, as if he was thinking things over. Alkaios waited, wondering what the other boy was thinking. “In the box in the left corner, next to the ovens, you’ll find some burnt bread that the bakers threw out earlier,” he finally said.
“Thank you,” Alkaios began.
“Oh, here,” the other boy interrupted. Something soft pressed into his right hand, and Alkaios knew immediately from the feel that it was bread. “You’re too scrawny.”
Alkaios was about to point out that the other boy’s arms were just as thin, but all thoughts disappeared as both boys heard the sound of footsteps and the voices of adult men. They froze, huddled next to the door.
The voices traveled past them, and faded away into the distance.
“There’s a door near the ovens too,” the other boy said again.
He stood up and moved rapidly to the other end of the kitchen, his movement quick, flitting from shadow to shadow with an ease that surprised Alkaios. This boy, whoever he was, was good. Alkaios followed as best he could, though he felt clumsy in comparison, for all that he’d trained under his father from the time he’d started walking. Alkaios spotted the crate, and saw the darkened crusts of burnt bread. Some still looked edible.
“Make sure to wipe your hands of any flour after,” the boy told Alkaios. “That’s how they’d caught Dion.”
Alkaios nodded.
“My name is Alkaios,” he said.
“I know,” the other boy whispered. Then before Alkaios could demand his name, the other boy was out the door.
***
The wrestling ring was packed with other boys. He saw the impassive faces of the instructors and older soldiers standing off to the side, occasionally reaching an arm out to push a boy properly into place. His heart leapt when a familiar face appeared in the crowd. Onesimos, with his characteristic wry expression, stood in the far corner, watching. A friend of Alkaios’ father, he’d known the man for as long as he could remember. The last he’d heard, Onesimos was rapidly making a name for himself, having recently earned the right to join the King’s guard, the hippeis. Alkaios’ father in his younger days had also held a spot there, and Alkaios was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps.
“Alkaios, come out here!”
“Yes sir!”
“I want you to have a match with…” the instructor paused, and Alkaios saw a hint of a sneer on the man’s otherwise blank face. “… him.”
Not sure why the instructor would have such an expression, Alkaios turned to see which boy the instructor motioned into the ring. He stiffened when he saw who it was. It had only been yesterday when he’d seen those eyes for the first time. Though the contrast between night and day was stark, there was no mistaking those eyes.
There was a murmur of voices when the other boy appeared into the ring, and Alkaios saw expressions among the boys that mirrored the instructor’s, though less skillfully hidden. Alkaios couldn’t imagine why. The other boy didn’t look any different, his curly, black hair cut short the same as Alkaios’.
“I’m Herakleides,” the other boy said, his stance casual, for all purposes acting as if he’d never seen Alkaios in his life.
“Alkaios,” he said stiffly, and bent forward in a crouch. Behind him, he could hear bets being placed.
“Alkaios will lay him on the ground…two marks,” he heard someone say.
It was loud enough for Herakleides to have heard, but the other boy’s expression didn’t change.
“Begin,” the instructor said.
Alkaios charged, reaching under Herakleides’ arms to make a grab for the boy’s stomach, but Herakleides shifted, and before Alkaios could think they were grappling shoulder to shoulder against one another. Herakleides was the shorter one. Alkaios moved to make his height more of an advantage.
His foot hit an unexpected snag. Somehow, Herakleides had moved his right leg forward to tangle with Alkaios’ own. Alkaios stumbled, and the other boy did not hesitate to push. A second later Alkaios was on the ground. Gasping for breath, in another three seconds he was down.
The ring was silent but for their quiet gasps for air. A broad grin appeared on Herakleides face, and the boy bent forward.
“You’re still too thin,” he whispered.
With an angry swipe, Alkaios shoved the other boy off him and got back to his feet. He’d lost, there was no doubt of that, and it rankled like nothing else. Alkaios was not used to losing. In a wrestling match against a boy his own age, this was the first.
Herakleides gave a bow, and Alkaios copied his movements, though he felt the burn of shame. To lose in front of everyone, and especially Onesimos…
When he looked up, Herakleides had moved back into the crowd of boys, and Onesimos-Onesimos was gone.
***
“You boy, your name,” Onesimos said.
“Why do you want to know?” the child asked rudely. Either the boy was an idiot, or foolishly brave. His stance revealed the latter, and the brightness in his dark, black eyes disproved the former.
“I could report you to your masters, boy,” Onesimos said. He could do more than that, as the boy was currently standing outside the gymnasia, blatantly disobeying orders.
The boy flushed and looked away, but remained unrepentant.
“I have no masters,” the boy replied.
It was the way the boy reacted to Onesimos’ words that gave the older man a hint. He narrowed his eyes, and looked more closely at the child, barely eight years old. With the same golden brown skin and dark, curly hair, the boy could not be told apart from any Spartan citizen, yet he was different, all the same.
“Ah, you’re the syntrophoi,” Onesimos said, masking the surprise in his voice. Syntrophoi entering agoge training were rare, few proper Spartan families caring to adopt the children of slaves, never mind giving such a child the chance to earn Spartan citizenship. Onesimos had heard that one had been entered into the agoge recently, though like his peers, he’d expressed amusement and disbelief at the idea. Now though, he wondered if the family that had adopted the boy had seen the potential before anyone else, and rescued the boy before he would have been inevitably killed during Krypteia. Adopting the boy had been an act of foolish compassion, yet Onesimos could sympathize.
Any child as bright as this boy appeared stood out, and the Krypteia would have had him on the target lists before he’d reached adolescence. The adopter in question probably hadn’t been able to bear to see such potential squandered under a sharp blade. Routine killings of helots were necessary to keep the slaves in line of course. Every Spartan soldier had done his turn on the Krypteia, and Onesimos was no exception, but there were times when he thought it was a waste. Seeing the boy for himself had only confirmed those thoughts.
The boy did not react to his words. His status was probably well known to most, and while the laws forbid special treatment paid to any boy in the agoge, it did not prevent bullying.
“Your name boy,” Onesimos repeated.
“Herakleides,” the boy said, eyes flashing.
“Herakleides,” Onesimos repeated, smiling despite himself. To name a helot child, a son of a slave, after one of the great founders of Sparta… “That is quite a name to live up to.”
“I won’t disgrace it!” the child said, revealing a strength of passion in his voice that Onesimos couldn’t help but admire. “I won’t disgrace it!” he said again, but he was no longer still. In a whirl of feet the boy was off, running back to the barracks, leaving Onesimos to contemplate the encounter in a fading trail of dust.
How many have seen that display of emotion? Not many, judging by the treatment the boy had gotten before and after the wrestling match.
“I believe you won’t,” Onesimos said, softly.
***
“Onesimos!”
“One boy leaves to be replaced by another,” Onesimos said to himself, chuckling. He turned to see Alkaios at the outer entrance of the gymnasia, eyes wide.
“Onesimos, I was looking for you. And… and for Hera-did you see?”
“A fine thing, to leave your assignment. Aren’t you supposed to be at the wrestling ring? The matches aren’t over,” Onesimos interrupted, leveling a gaze at the boy. The boy paused, paling, then pressed his lips together. “Or perhaps you believe that because you are the son of Kleitos, you are above such things.”
“No… I…” Shame blossomed upon the boy’s face.
“That reminds me. Some congratulations are in order,” Onesimos said. “You’ve heard that your father has been elected Ephor?”
“Yes. T-thank you.”
“He’s also a favorite to enter the Gerousia, is he not?”
“Father mentioned the Council of Elders,” Alkaios said, his nervousness fading. “But Onesimos, I wanted to talk to you about…”
“About Herakleides?” Onesimos said. “What do you wish to know?”
“You were talking to him earlier.”
“I was.”
“Who… who is he?”
Onesimos paused. He’d known Alkaios since the boy had been an infant, and never had he seen the fervor the boy displayed at this moment. The boy, despite his calm demeanor, was flushed. Onesimos smiled, amused. Alkaios caught the expression, and stiffened.
“He’s the son of a helot.”
“What? But…”
“They can enter the agoge you know, if they are formally adopted and entered. Actually, to be more accurate, he’s currently a syntrophoi, a candidate. If he does well, he will eventually earn a place as a Spartan citizen.”
Eyes narrowed, Onesimos watched Alkaios for any sign of reaction. Dozens of emotions flashed across the boy’s face in rapid succession, but rejection wasn’t one of them. Finally a coolness fell over the boy, as he returned Onesimos’ gaze with a look of his own.
“He won’t beat me again,” Alkaios said.
Before Onesimos could reply, the boy had turned to go back into the gymnasia. More amused than annoyed by the boy’s uncharacteristic rudeness, Onesimos watched the boy go.
He smiled.
To Move Beyond Reach
Ming China, Jiangnan Marketplace, 1392 CE
Jia-lu ducked under a raised basket of eggplants just in time. Had he not moved fast enough, it would have hit his head, and an angry farmer would have been at him to pay for the ruined vegetables. He grinned. Going through the marketplace at Jiangnan was never dull.
Checking to make sure that he wouldn’t fall victim to any more heavy objects, Jia-lu adjusted his outer tunic, a robe the color of modest gray, yet made from the finest silks available. A closer look revealed stitched embroidery in thread that gave off the faintest shimmer of gold, daring even for the son of a wealthy merchant. Perhaps especially because he was the son of a wealthy merchant.
He was supposed to be on an errand for his mother, who had sent him out earlier that morning with a bag full of coins under the strictest orders to look into any new dyes that might have appeared in the market this week. Jia-lu however, had no intention of spending the entire day on filial duty. Rumor was that an extraordinary novel was out retelling the battles of the late Eastern Han Dynasty. Something about three kingdoms. Whatever it was, Jia-lu meant to find it. Having spent the past week studying, a guilty moment or two spent enjoying a novel shouldn’t be too big a deal. Besides, if the book proved to be historically accurate, it could even count as studying. Maybe.
A building caught his eye. With a well maintained roof of red tiles and clean, plastered walls, Jia-lu hungrily drank in the piles of books on display. That looked promising. Ignoring the cry of a particularly insistent hawker holding out a tray of hair pins, Jia-lu entered the store, trying to locate the store owner. It was well into business hours however. The store was crowded, and Jia-lu had to carefully weave his way through dozens of other customers as he made his way to the store counter. On his way he passed a section of textbooks for the Imperial exam. Jia-lu paused in his steps, feeling guilty. To make up for the novel, he’d go there later to see if there were any other textbooks he could use in his studies, he promised silently.
“Or I could do it now,” Jia-lu murmured uncomfortably to himself, stepping into the aisle. He turned into the section marked “Rituals and Ceremonies”, knowing that this particular subject was his biggest weakness.
Jia-lu did not count on running into an acquaintance there.
“He Jia-lu,” the young man said, giving Jia-lu the most perfunctory bow.
“Good morning, Qi Shi-mo,” Jia-lu said, returning the bow.
“Studying?” the young man asked, turning back to look at the row of textbooks.
“Thinking about it,” Jia-lu replied honestly.
“Do you have time to talk? It’s been a while since I last saw you,” Shi-mo said. The words were friendly, but the face was expressionless and cool. Jia-lu wondered if he could back away politely.
“My mother…”
“It won’t take long,” he said.
“Ah. All right then.”
They left the store, Jia-lu giving the stacks of novels one last longing glance before following Shi-mo into a nearby tea house. The owner of the place seemed to recognize Shi-mo, giving the young man a friendly bow. No similar expression of friendliness appeared in the young man’s face though. Instead he motioned Jia-lu to take a seat near the doorway.
“The usual, Qi-xianshen?” the owner asked.
“Of course, thank you.” Shi-mo turned back to Jia-lu. “What would you like to have?”
“Umm…”
“As you’re coming under my request, I’ll pay for you,” he said.
“I guess I’ll have what you’ll have then,” Jia-lu said.
Shi-mo nodded, and promptly turned to order another set. The tea was quickly served, arriving in smooth brown cups bearing no engravings or illustrations. Jia-lu tried a sip, but set it down immediately. The tea, whatever it was, was horribly bitter. Who would willingly drink this?
Judging by the way Shi-mo was downing it, only Shi-mo.
“If a man withdraws his mind from the love of beauty, and applies it as sincerely to the love of the virtuous; if, in serving his parents, he can exert his utmost strength; if, in serving his prince, he can devote his life…” Shi-mo began.
“…If in his intercourse with his friends, his words are sincere - although men say that he has not learned, I will certainly say that he has,” Jia-lu finished.
There was a pause. Then to Jia-lu’s shock, the young man showed the briefest glimmer of a smile.
“A pity that, while you know the quote, you do not practice it,” he said.
Jia-lu felt his face heating, and knew his cheeks had turned red.
“What do you mean?” he said evenly, trying not to snap.
“I was there the day Ai Qi-ya lost his temper at you.”
Jia-lu froze. He’d forgotten that Shi-mo had been there. It shouldn’t have been surprising though. The young man had attended the same school Ai Qi-ya did.
The purpose of Qi-ya’s existence in his life remained a mystery to Jia-lu, though he knew without a doubt that the two of them were tied to one another. He’d met the boy years ago during an outing much like today’s, one of the many merchant families forcibly moved to Jiangnan under the Emperor’s new decree. At their first meeting, he’d been struck by Qi-ya’s passion, a sharp contrast to the Jia-lu then, who’d been complete devoid of goals and ambitions. Qi-ya had more than made up for that though. Even then, Qi-ya had already expressed the desire to became a civil servant.
But of course he would, Jia-lu’s inner voice argued. Qi-ya came from a long family of gentry-scholars, the elite class. Jia-lu’s family and their wealth meant nothing in a society where merchants were considered beneath even the poorest farmer, though that was slowly changing. Money spoke more than any well-meaning philosophy.
That had been the subject of the essay he’d written that had caused the other boy to lose his temper. In a counter to Qi-ya’s own essay on the importance of ruling by virtuous example as opposed to punishment and force, Jia-lu had, half serious, half in jest, written that all such thoughts were meaningless when the bribe money was handed to the official. Disgusted by Jia-lu’s cynicism, Qi-ya, normally cool and collected, had lost his temper and stormed out of Jia-lu’s presence.
They haven’t spoken since.
“You say this to a merchant’s son, whose life is ruled by money,” Jia-lu said.
“It is true that money is important, and that it corrupts. I accept the reality of that. But that was not why Ai Qi-ya had been so angry at you.”
“I know,” Jia-lu said. He sighed. “I know. He was angry not because of what I wrote, but because…”
“It showed how little you understood,” Shi-mo said, eyeing him with little change in expression. “Perhaps it was a mistake to allow the merchants in,” he added, referring to Imperial exam.
Jia-lu curled his fists in anger, but said nothing. Until a few years ago, the merchant class had been banned from taking the exam at all, their livelihood deemed to impure, too shallow to possibly understand the higher virtues.
“Learning without thought is labor lost…”
“...Thought without learning is perilous,” Jia-lu once again finished. He glared at him. “I know the Analects as well as you do,” he snapped.
“Do you?” Qi Shi-mo said, unflustered. “Let’s set the Analects aside for now then.” Then he launched into a quote from Mencius, while Jia-lu finished the quotes as quickly as they were said. They continued for some time, spanning various famous texts, dwelling into the arts, geography, and even math. Jia-lu saw enough to know that Shi-mo was going through the subjects tested in the Imperial exam. He braced himself for the inevitable questions.
They got to the subject of rituals and ceremonies, and that was when Jia-lu stumbled.
Shi-mo raised an eyebrow.
“That subject’s my biggest weakness,” Jia-lu admitted.
“I see,” the young man said. He paused briefly. “Did you know that by the time Ai Qi-ya had reached his twelfth year, he’d memorized all the rituals and ceremonies by heart?”
“So what?” Jia-lu said. “I’ll reach his level someday!”
Shi-mo burst out laughing.
Stunned by the response, Jia-lu could only stare silently.
“Someday,” he repeated, chuckling. “And to think Ai Qi-ya considered you a serious rival. The difference between you and him are like night and day.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean in terms of setting your goals, and reaching them.” He dropped his smile, and turned to look Jia-lu fully in the face. “He Jia-lu, right now, Ai Qi-ya is taking the Imperial exam.”
***
The room was stuffy, filled with fine dust that threatened to make Qi-ya sneeze. Packed with him were hundreds of other examinees, their brushes and ink laid out carefully on the right side of their writing desks. For the next three days, Qi-ya would be stuck here with them.
“You may begin.”
Qi-ya lifted a brush and prepared to write the first word. Around him, similar sounds filled the room. Next to him, he could hear the sound of steady scraping as the man dipped his ink block into the water to create ink. Too slow, Qi-ya thought. Such lack of preparation often forecasted failure.
All this was well and good, assuming of course, that Qi-ya didn’t fail either, which he would if he continued getting distracting like this. He reviewed what he’d written so far, and nodded with satisfaction. A question on how virtue was brought to the people, the answer was obvious to any elementary scholar.
Or it should be.
His mind in that instant conjured up He Jia-lu’s image. Qi-ya grimaced, annoyed with himself. He Jia-lu understood nothing, as he’d proven so readily months ago. There was no reason why Qi-ya should still be thinking of him. Still, he paused in his writing, and couldn’t help but wonder. Did He Jia-lu know what Qi-ya was doing? Did he care? Would he follow?
The answer to the last two questions were as obvious to Qi-ya as the answer he was writing out now.
It was, of course, a no.
The Rush to Catch Up
Ottoman Empire, Acemi Oglan School, 1684 CE
If there was one subject Javanko Serdich hated above all else, it was Arabic. In the stifling heat of the classroom, Javanko listened as closely as he could to Master Suleiman’s pronunciation of the Arabic passage, and willed himself to remember it. He worried. For a while his teachers had been displeased with his progress, a fact that had led to Javanko wailing to his friends for many a night as he’d struggled to master the passages.
Now he was finally managing to get some semblance of understanding, but as he listened to the language that was reputed to be, “the language of Allah,” Javanko couldn’t help but think back upon the plains of Hungary. There, he’d been surrounded by people speaking a proper language instead of what he was studying here. He ran a hand through his light brown hair, and noted the paleness of his hands against the white of his tunic, the skin color unchanging even under the harshest sunlight. This difference, and many others, picked him out as an outsider.
“The following passage, Serdich. Will you translate it for us?”
“Yes, Master Suleiman,” Javanko said obediently, standing up. He dropped his hands to his sides, and clutched the fabric of his trousers, the standard blue of a Janissary cadet.
“The parable of His Light is as if there were a niche, and within it a Lamp: The Lamp enclosed in Glass; The glass as it were a brilliant star; Lit from a blessed Tree, An Olive, neither of the East nor of the West, Whose oil is well-nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it; Light upon Light!”
“Good, you may sit down.”
Javanko let out a sigh of relief, silently thanking whatever it was that had driven him study the Quran the night before. The passage had been lifted right out of the Quran itself. He listened as Master Suleiman sternly lectured another cadet who’d bumbled the translation of another passage, too hot to stir up feelings of pity for the boy. Those who failed were left behind, and Javanko, with a higher goal in mind, had no time to wait for others to catch up.
His path into the Janissary cadet school had been anything but smooth. First he’d fought with his parents over the right to try his chance at the Devsirmre, the recruitment system first developed by the sultan hundreds of years ago. They’d even tried to get him to marry, using the law that stated married boys could not be recruited under the system. Javanko liked Anka well enough of course, but certainly not enough to spend the rest of his life with her.
To be recruited meant being considered one of the best of the best. A cadet of the Janissary corps was well respected, considered elite, from the highest officer down to the lowest ranked soldier. However, it also meant cutting off all ties from his parents, as well as his culture, and religion. Like the other boys recruited along with him, they’d eventually had to foreswear their Christian faith and convert to another; Islam, and in the end, ultimate loyalty to the Sultan.
It had been a year since he’d been selected through the Devsirmre, and now as a cadet at the Acemi Oglan School, standing on the same grounds as the palace itself, he somehow felt further from his goal, not closer. Perhaps it was because he was constantly reminded of the reason why he’d fought to get here. Rather than ease his worries, the reminder was like a thorn in his foot. He could not stop two minutes without feeling the urge, the need, to move forward.
Arabic however, might well put a stop to that.
Javanko turned to look out the window. The palace was not visible from where he sat, but the Enderun School was. White, like the other buildings around it, the Enderun school stood slightly apart from the rest, the curled spikes atop the smooth, white domes glimmering in the midsummer light. Beyond that, he knew, was Topkapi Palace, the home of the Sultan, as well as one other boy.
Akara Turan.
They’d met years ago. Javanko, accompanying his father on a trip to Istanbul, and Akara, the son of a well-to-do Turkish family accompanying his own father, had both coincidentally stepped into the same incense store. During the half-year Javanko had stayed with his father in Istanbul, for reasons Javanko still couldn’t understand, the two of them had managed to become friends.
Akara had been a scholar to the bone, fervently religious and dedicated to the idea of serving the Sultan. Javanko, raised upon the plains alongside horses, had until then touched no book other than the family bible. Certainly the idea of patriotism or faith had never seriously entered the young boy’s mind. Still, something had drawn them to one another, and soon Javanko had been clumsily turning pages under Akara’s careful watch, while Javanko had in turn dragged the boy out to play in the many parks that dotted the capital. But quiet, shy Akara had ended up being the stronger of the two. Toward the end of their time together, he’d infected Javanko with a similar urge to serve the Sultan, though in terms of enthusiasm, Javanko’s candlelight was nothing to Akara’s roaring flame.
Their fathers had watched them from a distance, tolerant of their friendship, secure in the knowledge that it was only temporary. Hungary was, after all, a long way from Istanbul.
They’d parted however, on unfriendly terms. It had been a childish spat, so meaningless that Javanko couldn’t remember what it had been about. Nevertheless, the look of disappointment and scorn on Akara’s face had been burned into Javanko’s mind.
A family friend brought news years later, returned from a similar trip to Istanbul. An off chance remark about a son of one of his clients was made; a brilliant young scholar who’d entered the scribal apprenticeship and was rapidly rising through the ranks of the kalemiyye.
“He’ll go far, that Akara Turan,” the man had said, not realizing that Javanko had been secretly listening at the door.
Whatever future dreams Javanko had held at that moment immediately disappeared-to be replaced with one goal only.
The sudden rustle of books and pencils startled Javanko out of his daydream. Class had somehow finished, and Javanko belatedly shoved his pens into his bag and grabbed his book to leave the classroom. The train of his thoughts however, continued.
In his quest to follow Akara, he’d quickly realized that he’d no choice but to go through the Devsirmre system. Javanko was no scribe, and had none of the recommendations necessary to apprentice under the kalemiyye. Still, entering the Acemi Oglan School was no guarantee that he’d be getting any closer. Should he end up as a common Janissary, he could be deported to places as far away as the northern borders near Russia. Javanko frowned. That must not happen.
“Javanko!”
“Ymer,” Javanko greeted, grinning widely when he saw his two best friends. Behind Ymer stood the much taller Shtjefen Ismaili, who returned Javanko’s grin with a gentler smile. Both boys, though of separate age, were from neighboring villages in Albania. They look nothing alike though, for while Ymer sported wild, brown hair he often had trouble tidying, Shtjefen’s was of the darkest, smoothest black.
Javanko had never been to Albania, but the three boys hadn’t let such a difference interfere with their friendship. They’d all been recruited through the Devsirmre, a group of outsiders steadily growing fewer against the tide of Turkish sons, boys of Muslim families who’d paid to send their children here instead of going through the hard criteria all three of them had been measured against.
“How was Arabic?” Ymer asked.
“Boring,” Javanko said, knowing that such a confession was safe at the moment.
“If Master Suleiman caught you saying that…” Ymer said, laughing.
“But he won’t will he?” he said. “And he won’t know that I think Arabic is an awful, awful language.”
“Javanko!” Shtjefen said, eyes wide with horror.
“Does it matter what I think, so long as I do well?”
“Some would disagree,” the older boy said solemnly. His eyes turned outside their group, toward a passing pair of Turkish boys. “That reminds me, have you heard about the Sultan’s latest decree?”
“What is it?”
“The Devsirmre,” Ymer said, his smile also fading. “It’s been abolished.”
“Ah,” Javanko said, though he could feel his heart skip a beat. That meant no more boys like him would follow. The last time a Devsirmre had been held had been-Javanko’s eyes grew wide. “I’m the last,” he said softly.
“One of the last,” Shtjefen corrected.
“Well, it’ll certainly make getting into the Enderun School that much easier,” Javanko said airily. “No competition.”
“The Turks certainly can’t match up against us,” Ymer agreed. “That’s what happens when you have to pay your way through.” He snickered.
“Ymer!” Shtjefen hissed.
“Whatever Shtjefen,” Ymer said. “You know it’s true. You won’t tell on us, will you?”
“No, but...” Shtjefen frowned.
“You have musket training next, don’t you?” Ymer asked.
“No,” Javanko said, rolling his eyes. “Oh, we stand around and pretend to use muskets, but...”
“It gets better,” Ymer assured him. “Don’t get discouraged. None of us can afford to.”
“I don’t really like shooting things anyway,” Javanko said.
“If you’re good enough, perhaps you won’t have to,” Ymer said softly.
“Exactly,” Javanko said.
He watched the other two boys closely, and was satisfied to see similar expressions on both of them. Though their reasons were all different, their goals were the same: to reach the Enderun school… and the palace.
***
“It pains me to see a young man cooped up indoors when Allah has blessed us with such a beautiful day,” came a familiar, smooth voice.
“Good day, Master Ozalan,” Akara greeted, not daring to look up. Carefully, he copied out the words onto the parchment, blowing gently to allow the ink to dry. The area around his desk was neat despite the clutter, a point of pride for Akara.
Other desks, with the seats noticeably empty of bodies, were filled with a variety of scrolls and pens. Even with the open windows, the high, arched ceiling of the apprentice workroom made things dark, and the clutter looked worse than it actually was. Akara winced when he saw one scroll lying dangerously close to an open ink bottle, and capped it himself. A ruined scroll was a loss for everyone, not just the errant apprentice scribe who’d allowed the damage to happen.
“Come walk with me,” Master Ozalan said. “It would do you good. Your father would scold me if he found out I allowed his precious son to waste away in here.”
“Father would do nothing of the sort,” Akara said, carefully capping his own ink bottle. His hands were stained black with ink, which would surely get onto his clothes if he didn’t do something about it. “Not when you are now as high in rank as you are.”
“Men might rise above their teachers, but it would be the height of arrogance to forget what we owe them,” Master Ozalan said, though he appeared in the dress of a palace official of the highest rank. His white silk robes were trimmed in blue and yellow. In light of the heat of midsummer he wore a white turban, his black hair combed smooth against his head. Even his beard and mustache appeared to shine. Akara tried not to think of his own grubby appearance, which he’d tried to keep tidy. His plain white tunic and red jacket would have to do.
Master Ozalan waited patiently for Akara to wash the ink of his hands at a nearby basin. “Come, I have something to show you.”
The two of them walked down the curved white hallways of Topkapi Palace. Master Ozalan was right. It was a beautiful day, the sky a perfect shade of blue. Many of the midsummer flowers were in bloom. Akara noted a particularly lovely blossom of the brightest yellow. He’d have to ask someone for a name later.
“Where are we going?” he finally asked, when it was obvious that they were not leaving the palace grounds.
“I thought you might enjoy a little inspiration. You’ve been shut in and forced to copy boring texts day and night for the past month or so. I thought to remind you of your original purpose.”
“My original purpose?”
“Your spirit, the fire that Allah had originally set alight within you. It has been lacking as of late.”
“I see,” Akara said, slightly taken aback. The voices of young boys drifted to where they stood, and Akara looked up to see the building that was gradually looming larger before them. He frowned. “The Cadet School?” he said.
“The cadets are doing musket training at the moment. It should be enjoyable to watch,” Master Ozalan said, smiling. He motioned for Akara to follow.
They stepped past the brown brick walls and into a courtyard filled with boys. Each carried what looked like a standard musket, though they were not, at the moment, using them to shoot. Instead, they marched at uniform speed, each call of the squad leader bringing out a different position. The first line fell back, and the next came forward to take their turn. Akara watched, fascinated.
And that was when Akara felt the ground drop out from under him.
It had been years since he’d seen the other boy, but Akara would never forget him, not him, the boy who had once been his dearest friend. Their friendship had ended just as abruptly as it had begun, and never allowed to heal. Javanko had eventually returned to Hungary, and Akara, thinking that it was over, had moved on. The path he’d walked with Javanko had forever separated, he’d thought.
Clearly Allah had other plans.
Javanko completed the drill in perfect beat to the squad leader’s orders, the front of his tunic stained with sweat. Ignoring the obvious foreignness, he still shone. From what Akara could see, in that group of boys, there was no better, nor any other boy more skilled.
“Impressive, isn’t he,” Master Ozalan said, following Akara’s gaze. “He’s the last of the boys recruited through the Devsirmre.”
“It shows.”
“Indeed. The Janissary corps has lost its formal brilliance, wallowing in their own pride and greed.” The man shook his head, his smile barely veiling his disgust. “It is a sad day indeed, to see our own Turkish boys doing poorer than a boy who had probably never heard a word of Allah until the day he’d been recruited,” Master Ozalan lamented, though his expression didn’t match the tone of his voice.
“But he has,” Akara wanted to say, as he struggled to maintain a calm composure.
“That boy you’re watching is, I’ve been told, a candidate for the Enderun School.”
It seemed odd that Master Ozalan would know about, of all people, Javanko. Had the older man somehow known beforehand? Was it his father? Akara carefully watched Master Ozalan’s face, but the man gave nothing to confirm Akara’s suspicions.
He turned back to view the drills, his eyes never leaving Javanko. At first it seemed that the other boy would not notice him, but as the command for the final drill was called out, for a flicker of a moment, Akara noticed Javanko’s eyes turn in his direction. Then less than a second later, his eyes moved forward again, dutifully completing the drills without a single misstep.
“In a few years, he may join you in the palace, isn’t that odd?” Master Ozalan said, chuckling.
For the first time in days Akara felt the flames of his spirit rekindle to its usual strength.
“He will have to make it there first,” Akara said stiffly. He straightened himself. “Thank you for showing this to me, Master Ozalan. I should like to return to my duties now.”
“Of course,” Master Ozalan murmured. “May Allah’s grace and gift be with you.”
“And you.”
He did not turn back to check if Master Ozalan was laughing at him.
An End to Rivals
Victorian England, London, 1826 CE
“Excuse me,” Alexander asked the footman at the door. “I’m looking for Mr. Carle Seymour. Is he here?”
“He arrived this morning, sir,” the man replied. “May I ask who…?”
“Alexander Taylor-Carlisle,” Alexander said, handing the man his card. The man looked at the card, froze, and immediately bowed.
“My greatest apologies Lord Carlisle.”
“Carle Seymour knows who I am.”
“He’s on the second floor, third room to your right, my lord. Shall I ask someone to announce you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Alexander said, stepping past the expensive glass and cherry wood doors to enter one of the finest, though not the oldest, club in London. It was most popular among the class of people who’d made their fortunes off of business in India. Now that Alexander thought about it, Carle Seymour certainly fit the description.
He walked confidently through the entrance; the floors were covered in rich green carpet, and ignored the expensive wood paneling along the walls. He’d spent the past few weeks traveling, and was in no mood to admire what he normally would have taken great interest in.
The establishment housed one of the new-fangled lifts that had appeared but three years earlier. Alexander skipped it in favor of the stairs, not about to allow himself to be distracted by the task at hand. It had taken him a week to track Carle down in London, and at this point Alexander was fighting a steadily growing temper. In fact, if it hadn’t been for an innocuous letter from a certain Lady Kensington he might never have found him. The letter itself had been unexpected, and the contents of the letter amusingly written in a style that was not at all becoming of any proper lady. His mother would have been horrified. Alexander however, did not much care about such things, not when the letter in the end proved to be so very, very helpful.
The door to the room was closed. Not bothering to knock, Alexander turned the handle and shoved the door open, upon which it hit the wall with a solid bang.
Carle was sitting at his desk. Until the moment Alexander had entered, his head had been resting on his arms. Surprised by the noise, the young man shot up wildly with a startled yelp, his dirty blonde hair mussed from what had presumably been a late morning nap.
“A-Alex! Give a chap some warning, will you?” he said. Carle nervously adjusted his red tie, which had become lopsided. His black silk jacket hung on the back of his chair, and Alexander noted the heavily embroidered yellow silk vest Carle was wearing over his white shirt. There were no creases, and certainly no sign that he was neglecting himself. Alexander relaxed.
“Now why would I wish to do that?” Alexander asked, his face a façade of pleasantness. Gently, he closed the doors behind him, but when he turned around, his expression had hardened. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving India. You made no preparations and certainly gave no warning. When I went to see your territories last month the ryots couldn’t tell us where you’d gone. They hadn’t even known you’d left! The Company is asking questions Carle.” Alexander walked to the desk and bent over it until he was face to face with the other man. Taking a deep breath, Alex asked the question he’d been dying to ask since all this had started three months ago. “Why did you leave India?”
“You… you went to my lands?”
“I’m on the Committee of Circuits, of course I went there!” Alexander said impatiently, straightening back up. “And don’t change the topic.”
“I… I left because…”
“Because?”
“There was a riot, you see, and…” Carle fell silent, his eyes casting downwards toward the desk.
“Your territories were safe when I was there,” Alexander said.
“They were?” The young man seemed startled. “They are. That’s good… that’s very good.”
“Were you fearing for your safety?”
“No… no, I wasn’t.”
“Then why did you leave?” Alexander repeated, frustrated with the verbal cat-and-mouse.
“Because… I failed.”
“You what?”
“Well, the system. It failed. And because I’d been promoting it, I failed also.”
“The system? You mean the ryotwari system,” Alexander said, now growing puzzled. “I know you’ve been promoting it over the zamindari system. It’s said to be more progressive. Fixed tax and rent rates according to the fertility of the soil, preventing corruption and abuse amongst the landlords, am I right? Such a system sounds far better than the zamindari. At least it prevents unfair taxation that’s subject to change at the whim of any selfish local lord or, for that matter a Company servant.”
“I thought so too,” Carle whispered. He covered his face with his hands.
“And you were right! The other members of the Committee were impressed with the way you ran your territories. The natives certainly don’t look starved.”
“No, that’s not true. The riot…”
“What riot?” But as he said those words, Alexander felt a tingling in the back of his mind that told him that there had been a riot. Alexander had dismissed it at the time, as there had been no obvious reason for the backlash other than typical native belligerence, and a later visit to Carle’s own territory revealed the natives in perfect health. “There was one, that’s right. Four months ago. In one of your territories.”
“I killed him,” Carle said, bleakly. His gray eyes were dull, even in the glow of the morning light-now afternoon, Alexander thought, taking a look at the ornate clock hanging on the wall to his left.
“You did no such thing,” Alexander snapped, not knowing who “he” was, and at the moment, not particularly caring.
“No, I did. Not with my own two hands, but if I’d been there… if I’d been paying attention like I’d been supposed to…”
“If I recall correctly, four months ago you were working on settling the dye trade in your territories.”
“Yes, I was,” Carle said, and Alexander was shocked at the bitterness in the other man’s words.
“So it was one failure. You’ll learn not to do it next time. This isn’t the first time you’ve made a mistake.” Actually, considering what kind of self-centered, shallow man Carle had been when he’d first joined the Company, that was an understatement. “You’ve… we’ve both done that many times while we’d worked our ways up the levels of the Company. It’s no reason to run back to England!”
“Do you know why they rioted, Alex?” Carle said.
“No, the natives said nothing.”
“Really? Well, perhaps news travels slowly,” Carle said. “Some of the village headman were hording some of the revenues, Alex.”
“Punish the ones responsible then.”
“No,” Carle said, shaking his head. “The men horded revenues, and to make up for the loss, do you know what they did, Alex?” The man looked, and Alex froze when he saw the look of devastation across the man’s face. “They starved the villagers who couldn’t meet their demands.”
“That’s…”
“That’s no different from the zamindari system,” Carle said coldly. “I punished the ones responsible, but not in time.” Beneath his clothes, the man shivered, though the room was comfortably warm. “I lost a very, very good friend because of that, Alex. He was a native, but a friend all the same.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Alexander said automatically, not sure what else to say. “But Carle, think about this for once. At least you care about the people. How many Company servants do? Even if you didn’t catch this one time, isn’t that better than if it had been some corrupt revenue agent instead? Think!” Alexander smiled sardonically. “Earl Amherst certainly won’t care.”
“The good old Governor-General…” Carle said, for a brief moment allowing a shadow of a smile across his face. It soon faded back into the dead expression that Alexander was beginning to fear.
“Come back to India,” Alexander said, half begging.
“I can’t go back to India, Alex,” Carle said, the slump in his shoulders revealing more than anything he could have said. The expression on his face was apologetic now. “My mistakes… until now they’d never killed anyone before.”
“Carle,” Alexander said, sensing what was about to come, and desperate to prevent it. “Listen…”
“In a few days I plan to send in my letter of resignation in,” Carle interrupted. I’m… I’m quitting the British East India Company.”
When the Tide of Time Returns
Japan, Nihon Ki-in, 2000 CE
Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Hikaru dashed up the stairs. Last time he’d checked the watch, it had read four-eleven. If they decide to do a post-game discussion, then he’d make it. If not-Hikaru roughly shook his head as he continued running. He could not afford to think such things right now.
He continued running even when he’d reached the proper floor, rushing down the hallway toward the game room without bothering to catch his breath. Hikaru heard voices in the corridor, and ran faster.
“Touya!”
The group paused to gawk at him, and Hikaru took the chance to move forward, grabbing the kifu out of Amano-san’s hands.
“Shindou-kun! Where have you been all this time?”
“You won,” Hikaru said, ignoring the man’s admonishment. He turned to meet Touya’s gaze.
“Shindou,” Touya said. For a split second Hikaru noticed the look of confusion in his eyes, but then it settled, as Touya, like he always did, saw the answer.
“Touya,” Shindou said, sides heaving, but undaunted, he pushed forward. “I won’t quit go. I’ll walk this path forever. I… I came here just to tell you that.”
Touya could have dismissed him. He had every reason too. Instead, he returned the challenge in Hikaru’s eyes with one of his own.
“Come after me!”
***
Later, when the excitement over Hikaru’s sudden reappearance had settled, he and Touya stood together outside the institute, backs against the wall and looking at nothing in particular.
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Hikaru smiled.
“So’m I.”
“Can I ask you something?” Touya said. Hikaru heard the sound of cloth scraping against the brick wall behind them as Touya shifted his weight.
“Sure.”
“Why did you decide to come back?”
“Because I found out… I found out it was okay to keep playing go.” Hikaru paused, waiting for Touya to say something. When he didn’t get a response, he continued. “And actually, you know what’s weird?”
This time Touya replied.
“What?”
“I feel like, now that I’ve come back, that I’ve done this before.” He took a deep breath. “As if I’ve been doing this for hundreds… maybe thousands of years. And I’ve been doing this for so long now, I can’t change the way I do things anymore. Even now.” Hikaru turned his head to look at Touya, and was pleased to see that Touya had done the same. “Especially now.” Then the realization of how bizarre his words must have sounded caught up to him, and Hikaru felt the heat rising to his cheeks. “Ummm… I mean. Never mind. That weird stuff I said.” He laughed. “I must be tired from all the running. It’s just a feeling, you know?”
Touya shook his head.
“No.” Touya paused briefly. “No. Sometimes... sometimes I feel the same way.”
Hikaru’s eyes widened, and then immediately narrowed.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“What? No I’m not!”
“What I said was ridiculous, you can’t possibly mean that!”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Then you’re ridiculous.”
“That’s-!”
Afternoon darkened into early evening as the two boys continued to bicker. One by one, the lights in the rooms of the Go Institute flickered, then turned dark. It was Touya who first noticed how late it was.
“Shindou, it’s almost seven.”
“…Oh. Man, time moves fast. I didn’t notice.”
“My family’s expecting me for dinner,” Touya said.
“Mine too.”
The boys looked at each other awkwardly. Then without another word, they parted, taking opposite routes to the station. Neither bothered to look back at the other. Such reassurances weren’t necessary. Not anymore.
Tomorrow, they will be back.