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straight into one of the Turkish guards.
    The guard grabbed William’s right arm and twisted it behind his back, while with his other hand he held a knife to William’s throat. William struggled briefly, but the knife dug in, drawing blood, and he stopped. As a crowd of onlookers gathered, William watched the slave-trader canter up to them and dismount. He said something to the guard, who twisted William’s arm further back, forcing his head down. William looked up to see the slave-trader standing above him, a dagger in his hand. William spat at the trader, who slapped him and then put the dagger to William’s nose.
    ‘ Serbest birakmak onu !’ someone shouted at the trader in Turkish, and he pulled the dagger away. William twisted around to see a lean, square-shouldered man striding through the market towards them. The man wore dark chainmail, and at his side swung a sword that, judging from his strong hands and thickly muscledforearms, he knew how to use. He was strong-jawed and handsome, although the deep creases on his forehead told of a life that had been far from easy. His hair was a sandy colour, surprising for the East, and his eyes were a piercing blue. The slave-trader looked at him for a moment, then spat and put his dagger back to William’s nose.
    Longo looked from the well-dressed Turk to the bone-thin boy with fair skin, reddish-brown hair and not the first hint of a man’s beard. He looked no older than fifteen, and he was certainly not from the East. Whoever he was, Longo was not about to let this fat Turk torture and kill him in public.
    ‘Please, sir. Help me!’ the boy pleaded in English.
    ‘I said, release him,’ Longo said again in Turkish and drew his sword.
    ‘The boy is a slave, bought and paid for,’ the fat Turk replied. ‘I will do with him as I wish.’
    ‘Then I will buy him from you.’ Longo took a pouch from his belt and tossed it so that it landed heavily at the Turk’s feet. A few gold coins flashed in the sun as they rolled free from the bag. ‘I trust that will be more than sufficient.’
    The Turk lowered his dagger as he glanced at the pouch – easily four times what the boy was worth. He touched the long gash that William had opened on his cheek. ‘The boy has drawn my blood. He has killed one of my men. His life is forfeit.’ He raised his dagger, preparing to strike.
    ‘My name is Giovanni Giustiniani Longo, and if you kill that boy, then you will have a quarrel with me.’
    The blood drained from the Turk’s darkly tanned face, leaving it a sickly yellow colour. He stared from the sword to Longo’s worn chainmail and then to Longo’s hard face. ‘ Katil Türkin ,’ he whispered. He lowered his dagger and shoved the boy roughly towards Longo. ‘The boy is yours, effendi . Take him!’ The Turk scooped up the pouch, not even bothering to collect the loose coins, and hurried off down the street, followed by his guard.
    Longo looked at the boy. ‘Well boy, what did you do to make him so angry?’ he asked in English.
    The boy spat after the retreating figure of the slave-trader and then turned to face Longo. ‘He wished to sell me as a slave. I did not wish to be sold.’ He looked at Longo suspiciously. ‘What did you say to him that made him leave? What does Katil Türkin mean?’
    ‘It means “Scourge of the Turks”. It is what I am known as amongst their kind.’
    ‘What are you going to do with me?’ the boy asked.
    ‘I have no need for slaves,’ Longo told him. ‘You are free to go.’
    The boy did not move. ‘I have nowhere to go. I have no money, no food. At least give me a weapon so that I can defend myself.’
    Longo looked hard at the boy. Something about him, perhaps the flash in his eyes or his belief that with a weapon in hand he could make his way in the world, reminded Longo of himself at that age. ‘What is your name, boy?’
    ‘William, sir.’
    ‘And how old are you, William?’
    ‘Sixteen,’ William replied. Longo eyed him