Women draped in black dresses and veils weaved among the vendors, prodding at fish and chickens in cages, buying bagfuls of dried fruit and nuts, loading beans and rice into baskets on their backs. The smell of roasting kebabs, cardamom and stewing apricots filled the crisp air, mingling with the sweat of horses and oxen, and the pungent hair of goats corralled in a pen at the southern end.
Ekmel had just finished arranging some gems in a wooden box when he noticed a young man standing still and silent among the chaos. The youth met his gaze with a raised chin, a pride out of kilter with his gaunt face and filthy bare feet. Ekmel closed the box and locked it as the youth pressed through the crowds and made his way towards him.
As the youth approached, Ekmel rested a hand on the dagger at his belt. He wanted this beggar—or slave—gone before his customers arrived.
‘I have something I wish you to sell for me.’
The man sighed. Every day skinny boys and youths just like this one streamed over the mountains from Golconda Fort and beyond, walking barefoot for days just to sell stolen slips of silk, dusty surcoats or stolen gemstones at the market. He shooed them all away, just as he should shoo this youth away—however, there was a dignity about this youth that he couldn’t explain.
‘What is your name, boy?’ he asked.
‘Sachin.’
‘Show me what you have,’ Ekmel said with a sigh.
The boy reached under his turban and removed a filthy cloth. He untied the string, and tipped a rough into his palm.
Without hesitation, Ekmel lifted the diamond rough up between thumb and forefinger and reached for his eyepiece. The stone was of the clearest water. He stood with the boy and whispered in a low voice, ‘Golconda.’
The youth nodded.
Ekmel glanced around the market to see if any of the king’s men were nearby. They’d been known in recent months to raid the market stalls and throw any traders who bought stolen diamonds from slaves into the dungeons—or worse. Still, he felt sorry for this weary youth.
Ekmel said. ‘I have a foreigner meeting me here this morning to look at diamonds.’
‘Can you sell him this one?’
‘Perhaps.’ Ekmel shrugged. ‘But my commission will be higher given the circumstances …’
The youth’s expression remained unchanged.
‘I’ll take half.’
The boy pursed his lips, but nodded.
‘Go!’ Ekmel urged. ‘Eat some food and return here in one hour.’
Sachin nodded, his ribs rippling through his dusty skin.
Muttering to himself that his wife would wring his neck if she found out, Ekmel tucked his wooden box under his arm for safekeeping, took a coin from his purse and walked the boy across to the food stalls. In his native tongue, Ekmel ordered a plate piled with steaming yellow rice topped with a spicy lentil stew.
Instructing the boy to keep out of sight, Ekmel turned to go back to his stall.
‘Please …’
Ekmel turned back.
‘You will sell the diamond for a fair price, won’t you? My brother died and we need to make an offering. My family …’ His voice faded, as if he’d run out of breath and was too tired to speak.
Ekmel nodded curtly. ‘I will see what I can do.’
The foreigner arrived at the agreed time, but instead of the usual dark waistcoat and pants he’d worn to the bazaar these past months he was dressed in the Persian style, with a qaba skirt in red silk and a matching burgundy robe. On his head was a golden silk turban with a ruby the size of an eye sewn at the centre.
Taking this adoption of local dress as a sign of goodwill, Ekmel spread the diamonds he’d removed from his own turban into the wooden box lined with silk, allowing the foreigner to take his time as he picked through the gemstones. Finally, Ekmel slipped the diamond from the youth into the box, and held his breath as the foreigner picked up the youth’s rough and turned it over in his hand.
‘We can have it cut for you, sir,’ Ekmel offered, gesturing towards the cutters and polishers huddled over stone wheels at the far end of the bazaar.
The foreigner shook his head. ‘My buyer prefers to cut and polish his own. I’ll take this diamond today, with those pink sapphires.’
Ekmel nodded and named his price. As he expected, the foreigner bargained hard. He was about to settle on a figure, when he glanced up and saw Sachin watching. The boy had said he wanted a fair price for his family.
So, against his better judgement, Ekmel held firm. ‘This diamond, sir, is from Golconda. You can tell … the purest water.’
Eventually, the deal was done, gold exchanged.
‘Prepare the stones for travel,’ demanded the foreigner.
‘Certainly.’ Ekmel placed the diamond rough with the three sapphires in a small leather bag, then placed it in a wooden box and wrapped the box in a square of white cotton cloth. Finally, he sealed the parcel with red wax and pressed his merchant’s seal into the wax with his ring.
Ekmel handed the box to the foreigner. ‘If I may be so bold as to ask, sir, where are you from?’
‘Antwerp,’ the man replied. ‘But these stones will travel with me to Bandar Abbas.’ The foreigner leaned in conspiratorially, buoyed perhaps by the excellent deal and the smell of sweet chai and simmering stew teasing from across the alley. He whispered, ‘I have a letter of introduction to a Dutch jeweller—Polman—who has a reputation for buying the best stones. Prefers to cut them himself.’
The foreigner wiped droplets of sweat from his pink cheeks and waved the sealed box in the air. ‘See you on my next trip. Good day, sir.’
Chapter 14
ESSIE
LONDON, 1912
Essie tugged on the twins’ hands as they walked up West Hill in Wandsworth with Gertie, Freddie and his friend Danny on Saturday morning. Freddie had convinced them all it would be well worth their while to visit old Stony Jack, the pawnbroker who regularly popped by the Golden Fleece at knock-off to have a pint with the lads.
They’d been walking since breakfast. The streets of terraces curved uphill, topped with endless rows of chimney pots spewing black smoke.
But the warm days had brought cheer to the streets. Flower boxes overflowed with ferns, periwinkles, petunias and fuchsia. Ivy smothered walls. As they crossed a lane, Essie paused to take in the sweetness of star jasmine spilling over a fence and imagined herself in that backyard of an evening, lying on a blanket and the air thick with perfume as she read Miss Barnes’s copy of The Wind in the Willows to Flora, Maggie and Gertie. She picked a sprig to pop in a jar of water to grow some roots and plant in their own barren plot.
The twins skipped ahead, swinging off lamp-posts and weaving between men in long coats wheeling barrows loaded with salt blocks. They pressed their foreheads against the lolly shop window and gaped at jars full of coloured sweets and toffees and the long plaits of liquorice that dangled from string near the ceiling. Essie wished she had a penny to buy her sisters a bag of aniseed balls or lemon sherbets.
‘One day I’ll buy you a bagful of each. You’ll have so much toffee you’ll be sick of it,’ said Gertie.
‘Not likely,’ scoffed Maggie.
‘Never!’ said Flora.
Essie’s heart sank. Perhaps she could stretch to an extra loaf this afternoon. The girls had walked without a word of complaint, despite splitting yesterday’s crusts before they set off. There was nothing else to offer them. Not even eggs.