Kings and Pawns of Flesh and Bone

Chapter 2 - Sheikh Matt

Shiekh Matt

Ghazi strolled through Damascus under the cover of complete anonymity. His face was well known throughout the Maghreb, where he often joined his father for royal events. In the capital, however, he enjoyed the unfamiliar sense of facelessness.

Damascus was the mother of all cities. A hotly contested urban sprawl humbly built from nothing but stone and the souls of thousands of men from nearly every civilization. Every street in the city revealed little bits of its character. Greek, Roman, Christian, Muslim characteristics threaded through the streets and alleyways, creating a backdrop as diverse as the people themselves. They flowed into the streets from every direction, devouring the roadways in a sea of blue, red, and green garments. Arabs from the Hijaz and the Najd, Levantines from Palestine and the Lebanon, Berbers from North Africa and Turks from the Steppe. It was a perfect storm of diversity, with the souk at its epicentre.

Persian cardamom and Chinese silk, Arabic coffee and Egyptian cotton, Palestinian olives and Syrian steel. The souk had a mix of everything and everyone. At some indefinite point in the past, merchants determined that shouting was the best way to entice potential customers. As such, the noise of the souk was deafening, drowning out thoughts and immersing everyone in a sea of chaos. Ghazi loved every minute of it.

The powerful scent of fresh fruit from one of the stands seized Ghazi, bringing him to a complete standstill. A full day in a cell left him in a state of hunger rarely felt by people of his station. Come to think of it, Ghazi had never truly experienced hunger. Pomegranates, dates, and oranges sat among the array of treats. The fruits made all the more alluring by the sweltering summer heat. It took only a moment for him to begin salivating like an animal, the drool nearly dripping down his chin. It was certain, now, that his courtship with the coins in his pocket would soon draw to a close.

"Juice and five dates, if you may" he said to the merchant, palm up with a handful of coins.

The merchant's eyes lit up, glittering brighter than the coins themselves. "Bless your eyes. Right away."

This is what it feels like to overpay... "You are too kind. Just the juice and---"

Ghazi was interrupted when a small object struck him on the side of the head. Confused, he turned and found himself in the midst of two grown men on the verge of striking one another. Onlookers gathered, and he stared, open-mouthed, at their complete lack of decorum. Not that this bothered him. For Ghazi rarely had the opportunity to immerse himself among normal people. Among real people. Had this been the Maghreb, the souk-goers would have regulated their behavior to suit his needs. Guards would have purchased the dates. Merchants would lower their voices. His life was as real as a desert mirage. Not like this. No, there was authenticity in this moment. It was raw. It was human.

The bystanders from around the shop quickly intervened before the situation could escalate. Ghazi rubbed his head and felt the warm sensation of blood touch his fingertips. Looking down, he found himself surrounded by black and white chess pieces. A marble-white king lay in-between his feet, covered in dust and blood. He picked up the culprit for further examination. The craftsmanship was exquisite. He studied the white king piece, a spitting image of his uncle, Khaled, covered in dirt and blood. The continued shouting dragged Ghazi's focus back to the altercation.

"He's a cheater. A liar and a cheater is what he is."

"And how do you suppose one cheats at chess you simpleton? You make moves, I respond."

"I... He's cheating, I know he is. I cannot explain it."

All of this over a game of chess Ghazi thought to himself. He watched on as the two men hurled insults at each other. The situation was rather juvenile. One man, who fancied himself an expert, was dumbstruck by his opponent's ability to outwit him. This persisted for several games in a row. And, like all great strategists, the defeated man descended into insults when skill proved insufficient.