Blood Red Sea

14

There was a counsel in the Governor of Messina’s palace, attended by various dignitaries and ambassadors in fine robes, carrying an alarming weight of scrolls, ledgers and sealed documents. Don John was given a royal welcome by two heralds blasting down long brass horns.

Then their deliberations began, slow and ponderous. What should be the next step? What did the Papal Legate from the Holy Father in Rome have to say? King Philip of Spain urged caution, as did Venice. Certainly nothing should be too hasty. It was important to keep negotiations going with the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Diplomacy might yet achieve peace in the Mediterranean.

To Nicholas and Hodge it was a bore, to Smith it was infuriating. After a while he could stand to listen no more, and stomped up and down in the hall outside, chewing his lip to tatters.

Stanley grinned to see him, but with sympathy. ‘Peace, Brother. You’ll have a seizure.’

‘I’ll be at peace when we start fighting!’ said Smith in a strange, strangulated whisper that wanted to be a roar.

Later, both of the knights were summoned before the counsel to give their opinion.

‘The Turks will be sailing upon Cyprus soon,’ said Smith bluntly. ‘The knights are sending one galley to aid the defence — all we can risk. But it is not enough. Cyprus will fall.’

The Venetian ambassador raised his eyebrows. ‘Really, Fra. .’

‘Fra John. John Smith.’

‘An Englishman?’

‘A Knight of St John. Who fought at Malta. Where were you?’

Don John raised a gloved hand. ‘Please, Brother John. Some courtesy.’

Smith scowled. Stanley nudged him with his foot to be silent, and said, ‘The counsel may not like what we say, and regard the knights as warmongers. Crusaders from another age, out of their time. But reverend sires, you know full well that we have an intelligence network second to none. You also know that in September last year a considerable Ottoman fleet, some sixty-eight galleys strong, appeared off the coast of Cyprus, under Admiral Ali Pasha.’

‘Of course we know,’ said the Venetian ambassador smoothly. ‘A state visit, quite unthreatening. We gave them a silver bowl of a thousand piastres as a courtesy.’

‘With which to buy more arms,’ said Smith.

Stanley kicked him harder.

‘The Turks came ashore at Famagusta and were welcomed amicably,’ said the ambassador, speaking to the rest of the counsel now. ‘They were given a tour of that celebrated city, and because they courteously asked to take four classical columns with them back to the Sultan for his palace, they were permitted to travel throughout the island of Cyprus in search of columns to their taste.’

‘So they took a leisurely tour of Nicosia and Kyrenia, Cyprus’s other principal fortified cities,’ snapped Stanley. ‘Even though the finest classical columns in Cyprus, as everyone knows, are to be found at Salamis.’

The ambassador inclined his head. The knights were always so belligerent, so disagreeable.

‘Just six miles north of Famagusta,’ said Stanley.

The Papal Legate shifted in his chair. ‘Is this so?’

The Venetian ambassador waved his hand. ‘I. . that is to say, we-’

‘There’s more,’ said Stanley. ‘Among their party was travelling one Josefi Attanto, a traitorous Italian who works for the Ottomans now. By profession, a military engineer.’

The Venetian ambassador at last looked discomposed, to the delight of his Genoese counterpart. ‘How do you know this?’

‘The knights know everything it is their business to know. Unlike the Republic of Venice, it seems. We also know that the Grand Mufti in Istanbul, Mufti Ebu’s-su’ud, lately reminded the Sultan Selim of a cardinal principle of Islam: that any treaty or promise with the infidel may be broken if it brings advantage to Islam. The principle of taqiyya.’

‘You are versed in Islamic theology too,’ said the ambassador with heavy sarcasm. ‘Is there no end to your wisdom, dear knight?’

The Genoese ambassador muttered something about low wit, and he and the Venetian exchanged time-honoured scowls.

‘It pays to know your enemy,’ said Stanley.

‘And you have spies in the very courts and chambers of the Sultan Selim himself?’

Stanley glanced at Smith and gave an enigmatic smile that he knew would infuriate this reptile of an ambassador. ‘Some of us know Constantinople better than you think.’

The Papal Legate said, ‘All this interests me very much, sir Knight, as it will the Holy Father in Rome. You know that no one has worked harder to bring the Christian powers into a league against the Turk.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Despite many obstacles. Tell us what more you know.’

‘You should be aware,’ said Stanley, ‘if you are not already, that the Ottomans are planning a canal between the Don and the Volga, in southern Russia, so as to dominate that region. They have allied with the Mohammedan Tatars in the Crimea, to destroy this burgeoning new power of the Grand Duchy, and will soon attack Moscow itself, we believe. That would secure their northern border and increase their power enormously. They are also planning a canal to link the Mediterranean to the Red Sea at Suez, thereby circumventing the Persian Empire, as well as the whole of Africa, on the trade route to India.’

‘Preposterous,’ said the Venetian ambassador.

‘Extraordinary,’ said the Papal Legate.

‘Can it be done?’ asked Don John, hitherto silent and watchful of his fellow counsellors, assessing the character of each in turn. So far his only liking was for the Papal Legate, a Dominican monk of small stature but sharp wits.

‘Anything can be done,’ said Smith, ‘with enough will and manpower. Even defeating the Turk.’

Don John smiled.

‘The Turks have quelled the rebellion in the Yemen,’ said Stanley. ‘They are at peace with Hungary, and with Charles IX of France. And so now they are all ready to turn again to the Mediterranean.’

‘And Cyprus?’ said the Papal Legate.

‘And Cyprus,’ said Stanley. ‘Regiments of Janizaries and Sipahis are already mustering at the new fortress of Finike on the shores of Turkey opposite. The fertility of Cyprus will serve them well when they arrive there — unlike Malta — and the Greek populace, alas, may well greet them as liberators. It is for the Venetian ambassador, not me, to explain why this might be.’

The Genoese ambassador chuckled.

The Venetian said, ‘Now you insult us, sir.’

Stanley ignored him. ‘Indeed, the Turks may well have sailed already. Even as we sit here talking.’

‘Preposterous,’ said the ambassador again. But his voice carried less conviction now. The rest of the counsel sat in thoughtful silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Don John, ‘the knights’ intelligence is grave. And I for one have never known it to be wrong. Let us reconvene in one hour, no more. Decisions must be made, and with dispatch.’

The two English knights were standing in a courtyard with Nicholas and Hodge, Smith grinding his fist into his palm for want of anything better to grind. Two slim, slightly built noblemen approached them, their demeanour courtly but reserved. They might have been brothers. They had green eyes and secretive smiles, and it seemed to Nicholas that there was something indefinably dangerous about them. Each carried a pair of ivory-handled knives on his belt. One knife usually served for most men.

They bowed.

‘Ambrosio Bragadino, of Venice,’ said the first.

‘Antonio Bragadino,’ said the second.

All bowed.

‘Our father, Marc’antonio Bragadino, is the Venetian Governor of Famagusta.’

Stanley nodded. ‘We have good report of him. I do not think that Famagusta will fall easily to the Turk.’

‘We thank you,’ said Antonio. ‘But you should know that Governor Dandolo, of Nicosia is less well reputed.’

Stanley grimaced. ‘We have heard as much.’

‘We cannot go with you ourselves,’ said Ambrosio. ‘It pains us, but we cannot. Our duties lie in Italy. But we will work ceaselessly to bring our beloved but reluctant republic into the war. And understand this. If our father should come to harm at the hands of the Turk — then we will sail east. And our revenge will be terrible.’

He spoke so softly, his green eyes unblinking, that Nicholas’s heart felt chilled.

These two would indeed make evil enemies.

‘We go to fight with your father if we can,’ said Stanley. ‘Rest assured, the Turks treat their nobly born captives with respect. If only to get a ransom.’

The brothers Bragadino bowed one last time and departed with silent, padding footsteps. Like leopards.

‘Interesting,’ said Smith quietly.

‘Worth remembering,’ said Stanley.

Tempers were on edge that evening, discussions fraught, mistrust and fear of betrayal everywhere.

‘Politics,’ snarled Smith.

Over a candlelit supper, Don Luis de Requesens said courteously to his master, a silent Don John, ‘His Majesty King Philip has forbidden you to go to Cyprus, sire.’

Don John sipped his wine.

‘It is a Christian territory!’ said Smith. ‘How can Spain not go to her aid?’

‘Greek Orthodox,’ said Don Luis, ‘not true Catholic.’

‘And how can a single galley of volunteers and knights,’ said Don John, ‘even Knights of St John, defend an island the size of Cyprus?’

‘We cannot,’ said Stanley, ‘and we will not. We will go there to advise, and fight and likely die there, vastly outnumbered as we shall be. But we will die content that we have done our oath-sworn duty. That is what the Knights do. What they have always done.’

‘But we are owed better than this!’ cried Smith, beating so hard on the tabletop with his bearlike paws that several glasses jumped and one smashed to the floor.

‘Calm, Brother,’ said Stanley. ‘You should cultivate more of His Excellency’s sprezzatura.’

‘Buggery and damnation to His Excellency’s sprezzatura!’

Nicholas glanced anxiously at the prince, but Don John only smiled. Don Luis de Requesens pursed his lips.

Smith stood and strode out into the courtyard.

‘My apologies,’ said Stanley. ‘It is not in my brother’s nature to be cool and urbane.’

Don John inclined his head. ‘No apologies necessary. It is the passion of such as Fra John that will save us all from the Turk.’ He considered. ‘If I went with you to Cyprus-’

‘Your Excellency!’ said Don Luis, scandalized.

‘If I went with you to Cyprus,’ repeated Don John, ‘what is the worst that could happen?’

‘The worst?’ said Stanley. ‘We arrive offshore, in secret, ensign down.’

‘Certainly not. Don John goes nowhere in mean disguise.’

‘Ah well, in that case, we arrive offshore, and word quickly spreads among the Greeks that none other than Don John of Austria is come to the war, still flying the double-headed eagle of the Habsburgs like a damn fool — the Greeks’ words, Your Excellency, not mine. Word is passed on to the Turks, for a price. And the Pasha promptly sends out a squadron of his fastest galleys to take you hostage.’

‘I am not going to spend my time in a Turkish dungeon,’ said Don John, examining his fingernails. ‘Imagine how the ruffians there would admire me. My elegant shape and figure.’

‘Worse, we would have stupidly given ourselves away, and gifted the Turks a powerful bargaining coin. Their preparations are far advanced, and we need to exercise caution.’

‘Semper non paratus,’ snapped the prince, and stood abruptly. ‘Caution is the daughter of punctuality and the mother of gastric disquietude.’

The rest of the table stared.

Don John forgot his dandyish poise for a moment and laughed out loud. A harsh little hah! Then he turned on his high heels and departed, Don Luis hurrying after him.

Nicholas laughed too. He was really beginning to like this preposterous prince.

‘Mad bastard,’ muttered Smith, standing in the opposite doorway. ‘Words merely descriptive, not disparaging.’

‘And he is to lead us against the Turk?’ said Hodge. ‘Christendom must be desperate.’

The comrades met again soon after the early summer dawn. A breeze was blowing and the eastern sky was red.

‘You should go,’ said Don John, regret in his voice.

‘Excellency?’

‘Get aboard your own galley. There she rides at anchor, look, under her Maltese Cross so red. I stay here. Thence to Rome, and perhaps to Venice after. Not out of milk-livered obedience to my brother. But my task is here. The delicate, unheroic work of diplomacy, forging the Christian princes into a unity. Like herding cats.’

Stanley and Smith both bowed.

‘Get you to Cyprus, and my bitter envy go with you. I mean, my heartfelt blessings.’ He smiled a wan smile. ‘To Famagusta, right under the glare of the Grand Turk. In his very courtyard. If Cyprus falls, then it will all come down to the great sea battle at last. But I need you back for that. I need you by my side for it.’

They shook hands, and then the prince lowered himself to shake the hands of Nicholas and Hodge as well.

‘English gentlemen volunteers. Believe me when I say, I hope we may meet again on a happier day.’

They bowed.

The ladder was being lowered with a clunk, a longboat pulling alongside.

‘Get your bags,’ said Smith. ‘The fate of Cyprus will decide much.’

When they came aboard the galley of the knights — she was called the St John of Jerusalem — there was Gil de Andrada to greet them with a broad smile.

‘We meet again.’

‘Don John has other business,’ said Smith. ‘A deal more tedious. But we are for Cyprus.’

‘And happy to have you as captain,’ said Stanley.

‘Vice-captain,’ corrected De Andrada. But he looked quite content about it.

‘Then who. .?’

Up from below appeared an older man with a long, fine nose, a thin beard, and extraordinary, burning eyes, deep set and circled with dark rings.

All bowed.

The Chevalier Mathurin Romegas. The most brilliant naval commander among all the Knights of St John, the most feared sea-wolf in the Mediterranean.

Nicholas knew all about Romegas. It would be an experience to sail with him.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Romegas. ‘We sail at sundown.’

‘There is a Moor travelling with us. Might he sit below?’

‘A Moor?’ said Romegas. ‘Why?’

‘It will become clear in time, I think.’

On the second day out of Messina, far to the south upon the burning sea, there was a small sun-brown island. Malta.

Malta of the knights.

Nicholas’s heart ached to see her. But they would not step ashore there. Most of those he had loved there were dead. Jean de la Valette in his grand stone catafalque in Valetta’s new cathedral. Bridier and Lanfreducci and Medrano and all the brave knights who were slain. And a young girl called Maddalena, too, lay sleeping in her narrow grave until the Judgement Day.

The handsome young Florentine knight, Luigi Mazzinghi, was standing by him.

‘She is so small a place, our island home. The island that you fought for, you and your comrade Odge.’

‘Hodge,’ said Nicholas. ‘H. H.’

‘Hodge,’ said Mazzinghi carefully. He smiled. ‘And while you and he fought, I was bent over my desk in a room in a Florence palazzo, learning my mathematics and my Latin grammar. How old are you now?’

‘Twenty-two.’

Mazzinghi tapped his chest. ‘Nineteen. Thirteen when the guns of Malta roared all summer long. Yet there were boys of thirteen fighting at the siege?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Boys of ten, boys of eight. Boy soldiers, slingers, women, entire families fighting near the end.’

‘Everyone thinks Cyprus will be different.’

‘I think both better, and worse.’

‘I pray God,’ said Luigi Mazzinghi softly, crossing himself, ‘I only pray that I am worthy in the battles to come of the heroes of Malta.’

In the squalor and poverty of the last two years, Nicholas had half forgotten about the knights. Not only Europe’s most elite warriors, but monks too. Most devout swordsmen. Now Mazzinghi prayed he would be worthy of the heroes of Malta — such as himself! A whoring, drunken, roving, brawling English vagabond, lost in the world, with neither family nor home, nor country.

He smiled a bitter smile. In whatever firestorm was to come, he prayed he would be worthy of such simple, noble souls as the Chevalier Luigi Mazzinghi.

And the firestorm would surely be upon them soon.

Time was hurrying on. The sun sailed across the sky.

The Turk was coming.