Mamluk

by J. K. Swift

  Foulques could feel the flames lapping at his soul. As well he should, for it was he and his kind who had failed the people of Acre. The tradespeople, artisans, merchants, servants, and even slaves were now fighting for their lives. That was not God’s purpose for them. That task belonged to His soldiers of the holy orders, and their king, all of whom had failed miserably in this divine calling. Aside from the few of them on board, the entire fighting force of the Hospitallers was still in the doomed city. Along with at least thirty thousand people who had been unable to escape.

  “The city will fall,” Thomas said, as though he had just come to that realization. “What will happen to them?”

  It was uncharacteristic of the lad to speak when not called upon. Foulques decided he deserved the truth. “Every man will be killed, whether he raised a sword or not. Any woman found will be raped, young or old, and then sold into slavery. The children will be separated from their mothers, and they too will be sold at market.”

  Vignolo winced, but he said nothing. He knew Foulques spoke the truth. His surprise, no doubt, was that Foulques had declared it so openly to the boy.

  “And our brothers?” Thomas asked.

  “We have failed our Lord and His people,” Foulques said. “What do you think will happen to them?”

  The words came out harsher than Foulques intended. He took a breath and looked at Thomas. He was a hard lad to read at times, but at that particular moment, the pain in his soul was as apparent as the jagged scar disfiguring his face.

  God in heaven. The list.

  One hundred names penned in the boy’s own clumsy hand. Before compiling the final list, Thomas had worked off of the scroll with the three hundred names Foulques had given him. Thomas had taken his quill and carved clean, deliberate strokes through two hundred of them. Foulques derided himself for not seeing it sooner.

  The boy thinks he is responsible for the Schwyzers still in the city. He chose his next words carefully.

  “We have lost everything, this day. And I do not think God is finished with us, yet. But for some reason we have been spared. It is not our place to question this. All we can do is rise tomorrow, remember the smiling faces of our friends and brothers who are no longer with us, and follow the path God has put in our hearts. If we set out on that path, and are careful to stray but a little, the world will become a better place than it is today. You will see.”

  That is all any of us can strive to do, Foulques thought. The words he had just spoken sounded strange to his ears, polished, like the sermon of a priest. Or, perhaps, a father?

  He looked at Thomas, who stared straight ahead, his dark eyes unseeing. If anyone needed a father at that moment, it was him.

  Vignolo suddenly spoke up. “Sails are hoisted. You want to take her out of the bay, Thomas?” He stepped aside, relinquishing the wheel to the lad without giving him much of a choice. He pointed at it as it began to turn with a mind of its own.

  The melancholy on Thomas’s face was replaced by wide-eyed surprise, and not a little fear. “But I never… I do not…”

  “Best grab onto her before she gets away from you, boy,” Vignolo said.

  Thomas stepped forward and grabbed the nubs of the wheel with both hands, like he was climbing a cliff of granite by using a dagger in each hand.

  Vignolo laughed. “That is a fine grip you have there, Thomas. But, perhaps ease up a bit on it so we do not have a need to replace the wheel every voyage.”

  He went and stood at Thomas’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. He pointed at the mouth of the bay with his other. “See the opening? See how our bow is angled toward the rocks on the left? Keep turning, little by little, until our bow angles away from them. Bring her into the middle.”

  He stepped back and watched, giving words of advice often as Thomas got the feel for the wheel, and how many revolutions it took to bring about the bow of the ship. Vignolo gave him some space and scanned the harbor with his looking glass. He was quiet for an uncharacteristically long time before he spoke again.

  “Well, sard me all the way to hell if that is not who I think it is. And one of yours, as well,” Vignolo said. He handed his glass to Foulques. “Know him?”

  Foulques put the instrument to his eye and focused it where Vignolo pointed, along the eastern-most edge of the harbor wall. Halfway to the open sea, two men sat knee to knee in one of the tiniest row boats Foulques had ever seen. It rode low in the water, with the waves occasionally lapping over its edges. The smaller man rowed, while the other, a larger man wearing the white-crossed robe of a Hospitaller sergeant, bailed. Focusing in further, Foulques realized the conically shaped bucket he scraped along the bottom of the boat was actually a helmet of Saracen design.

  Foulques could not keep the smile from his face. There could be no mistaking the profile of Jimmy the Neckless, even though they were about as far away from Foulques’s ship as they could possibly be within the harbor.

  “It is Goodyear Jimmy,” Foulques said. He kept looking through the glass as the rowboat receded slowly into the distance. The second man looked familiar but Foulques could not place him. “Who is the man rowing?”

  “Stephanos the Greek,” Vignolo said, a note of regret in his words. “Looks like my debt to him will not go down with the city after all. How in all the hells do you think those two ever got together?”

  “God’s miscreants have a way of finding one another in this world,” Foulques said, the glass still held up to his eye.

  There was not nearly enough room in the boat for the two big men. As Stephanos bent forward at the waist to power his oars, Jimmy had to interrupt his bailing to lean away to avoid knocking heads. After every few strokes, their rhythm would break down and they would stop their respective tasks to exchange a few choice words.

  Foulques lowered the looking glass and handed it back to Vignolo. “Can we go back for them?”

  Vignolo shook his head as he collapsed the instrument. “Not without taking down a half dozen ships in the process. But a betting man would say they will do just fine. If the Mamluks could not get Stephanos at the Massacre of Antioch, they will not get him here.”

  Vignolo turned back to make sure Thomas was still on course. He looked out over the water, using one cupped hand to shield his eyes from the sun glinting off the gentle waves. His face dropped.

  “Oh, no.”

  “What is it?” Foulques asked, as he watched Vignolo’s hands fumble to extend his battered glass once again. He held it up to his eye and before Foulques had time to repeat his question, Vignolo swore at every angel in heaven.

  “Thomas. I am afraid the lesson is over for today.” He stepped forward and took over the wheel. “Foulques. You had best get your men ready. I can delay them for a few minutes, but they will board us eventually. I cannot change that.”

  “Who will board us?”

  “I am afraid an old friend of yours has come calling, and it is too late to climb out the back window.”

  Foulques snatched the looking glass away from Vignolo. Even before he recognized the ship, he had a suspicion of who it was. He could tell by Vignolo’s voice.

  “The Northman,” Foulques said, unnecessarily. He counted the men on the ship that he could make out. “I would say forty or fifty men.” He slowly returned the glass to Vignolo.

  “That makes it fairly even,” Vignolo said.

  Foulques closed his eyes and shook his head. “Normally, I would agree with you. But if the Northman is there, then he has his Mamluk warriors with him. We will be no match for them if they board us.”

  Foulques knew the Schwyzers were too young, too inexperienced, and the Genoese were masters with their crossbows, but the Mamluks would annihilate them once they closed the distance. They could not fight them and they had no hope of outrunning the Northman’s ship. That left very few options. Foulques heard the marshal’s voice repeating the same thing over and over in the back of his head. You are not ready, Foulques.

  “What do you want to
do?” Vignolo asked.

  Foulques looked at the ship in the distance as it steadily grew in size. Now he could make out its two banks of oars dipping into the water and propelling it toward them. Their sails were up, but angled in tightly as they were sailing into the wind.

  “Point us directly at them,” Foulques said. “Thomas. Tell the men to prepare to board.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Badru and Yusuf stood on the helm deck of the Wyvern as they left the open sea and passed through the mouth of the port of Acre. Badru lowered the looking glass from his eye and nodded at Hanif, the Wyvern’s helmsman.

  “You are right. It is a Hospitaller ship,” Badru said.

  Hanif’s eyes were keen when he was on the water. It was a phenomenon that confused Badru for the man was almost sightless when on land. He could not recognize the faces of his own men at twenty paces and he was forever tripping over imaginary obstacles when he walked. But put him on a ship, out at sea, and somehow he came alive. He no longer stumbled, his back straightened, and years fell from his leathery face. He could tell you the nationality and probable cargo of a ship in the distance long before any man with a looking glass ever could.

  “But they have a company of Genoese on board, no?” Hanif asked.

  “Yes. They must be transporting something valuable,” Badru said. He lifted the looking glass up to take another look. “Adjust your course, Hanif. They will be our next target.”

  “Is that wise?” Yusuf asked. “The sultan was specific when he said not to bother attacking any of the Christian Orders’ ships.”

  “This one may have something valuable on board. They have hired mercenaries.”

  Badru had no idea if that was true or not. What he did know was that he did not want to insult his men by attacking another ship full of women and children fleeing the doomed city. There were no Venetian or Genoese merchant ships in the vicinity, for they were most likely the first to gather their treasures and run. But this one had Genoans on it, which meant it carried valuables. Rarely did you find one without the other. In addition to the Genoans, he had seen only one Hospitaller Knight and a dozen or so men-at-arms on deck. Because of all this, he could justify attacking this ship even though it flew a Hospitaller flag. In his eyes, he would not be in open defiance of his sultan’s orders.

  “They have changed course,” Hanif said.

  “Head them off before they clear the bay.”

  Hanif squinted into the distance, his eyes all but disappearing in the sun-browned creases of his face. “No, Emir. There is no need. For they are attacking us.”

  “Attacking us?” Badru lifted his looking glass up again to have another look. Sure enough, the Hospitaller ship had altered its course and was now coming straight at them. They had a slight advantage in numbers, but their captain obviously did not know Badru’s ship or his men. His Mamluks were experienced warriors, and unlike most others of their kind, they were experienced at fighting at sea. He would put his men up against an enemy with even numbers any day.

  He trailed his looking glass down the length of the Frankish vessel. He could just make out men attaching hinged boarding planks to the fore and port sides. The ship itself was unimpressive, medium in size, and very old. Her best days were long behind her. However, the bow was unnaturally thick, appearing to be reinforced with several layers of material, perhaps even some iron. That was the one strength of the ship.

  Badru saw the coming battle through the eyes of the enemy. They would use their reinforced hull to ram the Wyvern and then board from their bow. The extra boarding planks on the port side were a precautionary measure in case they could not stick their bow and were forced to come up alongside the Wyvern. Badru saw no reason not to accommodate the enemy in their wishes.

  “Bring us to a standstill, bow to bow with them,” Badru said. He sent a runner to bring him Safir. Moments later his most trusted Mamluk was at his side.

  “Yes, My Emir.”

  “We are going to board a ship protected by Genoese crossbowmen. Tell the men to leave their bows. Every second we spend exchanging missile fire we put ourselves at a disadvantage. Instead, line them up under good shield cover, with orders to board the enemy ship as quickly as we can. We will use their own planks against them, but establish two of our own as well. The Genoans will try to stay back and use their crossbows, so we go for them first.”

  “It will be done,” Safir said. He bowed and walked swiftly away to make the arrangements.

  Badru felt Yusuf’s hand on his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this? The bay is littered with other ships. Ones that look like much easier adversaries. Many of which would surrender without a fight.”

  Badru let out a sigh. There were some things Yusuf would never understand, no matter how many times he tried to explain. He looked him in the eyes and shook his head, but as he did so, Badru covered Yusuf’s hand with his own. It was not his fault. He was not Mamluk.

  “Must you go with them?” Yusuf asked.

  “Of course,” Badru said. “An emir fights with his men. A slave owner does not.” The way Yusuf looked at his feet, and gave a resigned nod of his head, reminded Badru painfully of Yusuf’s house slave beginnings. Though he had been a free man for many years now, there were still some things from that life that would not let Yusuf go.

  “I will stay here with you and Hanif until the ships are tied together and my men have made the crossing. But then I too, must go.”

  “Of course,” Yusuf said. But Badru’s words had the desired effect, for his face lit up and he moved a step closer to Badru to shield himself from the wind.

  Badru turned toward the helm and the wizened figure of Hanif.

  “They are coming on strong,” Hanif said. “They have mistaken our slowing down as us trying to tack away and run.”

  “Good,” Badru said. “Play into their thoughts. Make it look like we are trying to turn around to gain the wind. They have it now so they may attempt to flee if they see us as too difficult a target.” He leaned over the railing and shouted to the Mamluks below. “Safir! Conceal half the men behind the railings.”

  The Mamluk bowed his head and relayed the message. Hanif began yelling orders at his sailors. They were a small group of men hand-picked by Hanif himself. They were not Mamluks, nor even warriors by any stretch of the imagination, but they did not need to be. Their job was to sail the ship. Badru’s men took care of all things military.

  The only other non-Mamluk crew members, if you could call them that, were the slaves manning the oars two decks below. Badru had always preferred to use his own men as rowers, but the sultan had insisted on giving him fresh Christian slaves from his recent conquests. He had enough slaves below decks to man every oar twice. And that was not even taking into account the more recent prisoners they had taken on. He was glad he was no longer in the slaving business, for the market was about to be overrun with Christians. It would soon be cheaper to buy a new slave than to feed an old one.

  As the minutes passed the ship grew larger and Badru could make out the shapes of men without the need of his looking glass. There was a lot of movement near the front of their ship and the sun began to reflect off the steel of weapons and mail.

  He had been dismayed when the sultan told him he and his Mamluks would not be storming through the front gates of Acre with the rest of the army. For one brief moment, he thought perhaps Khalil had learned the truth about who Badru was. But fortunately, that was only Yusuf’s worries instilling themselves in his thoughts. The sultan wanted Badru to use his ship and men to stop any rich Christians, Jews, or even Muslims from escaping the city by sea with their family treasures. He said to especially be on the lookout for ships with members of the clergy aboard, for they would never leave anything of great value behind in their churches. Badru had accepted Khalil’s command without question, but now he wished he had not been so accommodating. Of course he would never refuse an order from his sultan, but perhaps he could have suggested an alternative. Khalil
had heeded Badru’s advice before. Surely he would have understood the desire of Badru and his Mamluks to be in the city when it finally fell. Of all people, the sultan would have recognized the waste in sending celebrated Mamluk warriors against defenseless priests and peasants, if Badru had only asked. But he did not. He was in too much of a hurry to leave the sultan’s presence. Was that how a faithful Mamluk should serve?

  Caught up in his thoughts, Badru soon realized the Hospitaller ship was almost upon them. A quick glance below told him his men were in position. He put his looking glass to his eye and observed the enemy. When he got to the helm, and saw who was standing there, his hand dropped involuntarily to his side.

  “By Allah’s prophet,” he said.

  “What is it?” Yusuf asked.

  Badru willed feeling back into his hand and lifted the glass back up to his face. His eyes had not deceived him. It was Foulques de Villaret. And standing beside him, his hands clutching a wheel older than Badru himself, was an Italian. It had to be Vignoli. He was sure of it. He had never seen the man’s face, but he had been living with his name inside his head for eight years.

  “Emir, what do you see?” This time the question came from Hanif. Apparently they were still too far away for him to make out faces, because he was the one man on board who could identify the Genoan.

  Badru pushed the looking glass into his hand. “Tell me who that man is beside Foulques de Villaret.”

  “Villaret? The Hospitaller?” Hanif kept one hand on the wheel and did as he was ordered. He let out a low whistle and handed the glass back to Badru.

  “It is him,” he said. “Vignolo dei Vignoli. Both of them. In one place at the same time.”

  Had he misjudged the Hospitaller during the failed peace negotiations? He had to know whom he was attacking, and yet on he came. He looked through the glass yet again and studied the Knight of Saint John. His jaw was set, determined, and his blue eyes stared back directly at Badru. He knew exactly what he was doing. A thick rope was wrapped around his waist to brace him from the upcoming impact of the two ships colliding.