“I wish I could be certain of that,” Ibrahim said. “I wish I could feel that I had not made a terrible mistake in sending Roxelana to the Padishah’s bed. I wish I could feel that the entire empire, the world, might not one day regret that decision.”
He appeared genuinely distressed.
Harry could only say, “I am sure you concern yourself needlessly.”
Ibrahim gave one of his sudden attractive smiles. “No doubt you are right. But do not lose yourself away in the West, Hawk Pasha. Be sure to come back to us. We may well have need of you one of these fine days.”
Ibrahim, being a Greek, was keenly aware of the insecurity of his position, knowing that he was hated by the Turkish pashas and that he remained in his exalted position entirely by the favour of the Sultan. But was he not certain of that favour? If only for having introduced Roxelana to the Padishah’s bed?
Harry frowned. Or was he? He recalled Ibrahim boasting of how he had “broken” the girl. Suppose Roxelana really did gain some influence over Suleiman, might she not use it to bring down the proud Grand Vizier who had tormented her into subjection?
Ibrahim did indeed have something to worry about.
But the Greek had made his own bed, thanks to his overweening ambition, and must now lie on it.
While he, Harry, had nothing but bright prospects ahead of him, so far as he could see. Even if Roxelana were to become Sultan Valideh — which was an inconceivable thought — he would surely remain high in favour; for Yana was her sister. He had never ill-treated Yana and he was more certain now than ever that she loved him.
And he was now Hawk Pasha, and entrusted with a mission of the greatest importance.
*
Aimée and Giovanna were desolated to learn that Harry was to leave Constantinople for what might be a considerable time. Nor could he alleviate their grief by pointing out that even if he had not been given this command, he would be accompanying the army to Persia the following year.
Sasha, Tressilia and Yana were all delighted when told that they would accompany him. So were the boys, who had already dreamed of following their father on a campaign.
Khair-ed-din was even more pleased, and seemed not in the least disturbed at being placed under the command of a man thirty years his junior. His eyes gleamed as the cannon was brought on board, pushed and dragged up a ramp from the dock by slaves, to be placed on his foredeck.
“I have dreamed,” he told Harry, “and despaired of my dreams ever coming true. Now they will do so. You and I will make them come true, Harry. Because we are two of a kind, eh?”
“We even look alike,” Harry reminded him. He was in the best of humours.
Khair-ed-din looked from Harry’s red beard to his own, and gave a shout of laughter.
“Oh yes,” he cried. “Redbeard! They will know us as Redbeard. How will the Franks say Redbeard?”
“Ah…I should think in Latin they would call us Barbarossa,” Harry suggested.
“Now there is a name with which to conjure:
“Barbarossa. It sounds better than Redbeard — more formidable.”
He gave the orders to cast off, and then went aft and stood on his poop deck, legs apart and hands on his hips. “Barbarossa!” he yelled. “Let the Franks beware!”
14
The Spaniards
Khair-ed-din’s squadron of six galleys drove through the calm waters of the Mediterranean. Here, far to the south of Constantinople, south even of Peloponnesus in Greece, was a climate Harry Hawkwood had not known since the Egyptian campaigns of Selim the Grim. And he had never known it at sea.
The sky was a cloudless pale blue, the sea a rippleless dark blue. Dimly on the northern horizon there was a trace of purple: the mountains where once the Spartans had been lords.
The galleys surged smoothly forward, all hundred and twenty oar-blades of each ship — sixty to a side, arranged in three banks of twenty — striking the water in unison. They were cruising, and the slaves were not being extended.
The only sound above the swish of the water past the hull was the regular beat of the drum; the drum major had a stick in each hand and a drum on each side, which he crossed his arms to strike — one surface every other second. He was relieved every hour; the slaves would not know any relief until speed was reduced at dusk. But Khair-ed-din kept going throughout the night — he knew these waters so very well he did not fear shipwreck in the darkness — and the slaves could only sleep in relays, every third oar shipped for four hours…unless they were fortunate and a breeze sprang up.
The pirate captain had no doubt that his rowers could be replaced as and when he chose. He did not regard them as human beings; a man chained to his oar became lower than a beast of burden. His only value was the strength in his arms and back. Once that failed he was thrown over the side without the slightest ceremony; there was always a couple of dozen relief oarsmen confined forward, waiting to replace them.
They were nearly all Christians taken in battle, with just a scattering of Africans. They sat on their benches naked, their beards extending to their laps, their flesh whip-scarred and wind-burned, their backsides blistered and rotting from the constant friction, surrounded by their own odours and their own filth. Twice a day, at dawn and at dusk, the pumps were manned and canvas hoses were played over the benches, driving the sweat and urine and faeces into the bilges, whence some of the effluvium found its way over the sides. The hoses made very little difference to the stench which hung around the galleys like a vast miasma. But, as Khair-ed-din jovially remarked, “One soon gets used to the stink.”
He no doubt knew that were he ever to be taken by the Spaniards or the Genoese, his fate would be even worse than that of a galley slave — if less prolonged.
Presumably, Harry Hawkwood reflected, as he stood at the break of the poop and looked down through the open deck at the straining bodies beneath, he himself now risked the same fate.
He wondered what he would feel like, to be chained to an oar, to know that he must row until he dropped, given the minimum of food and water to keep him alive, and then be thrown over the side? It was not a fate he had ever contemplated, for the Hawkwoods lived and fought as nobles…and died as nobles too.
Hearing a rustle, he looked down at the woman now standing beside him, her small fingers clasped on the rail. She too watched the men, her lips slightly parted. Her head was bare; since Harry had given his women permission to abandon the yashmak if they chose. Sasha and Tressilia did not choose, of course, and in any event were still seasick.
But Yana had taken to the sea as if born on it. She had never cared for the yashmak, and now her golden-brown curls floated in the breeze as she stared at the men below. They had no galley slaves in Russia, because they had no galleys. Here were probably more naked men gathered in one place than she had ever seen before — though none of them was a particularly pleasing sight.
She felt her master’s gaze on her, and flushed.
“I feel sorry for them,” she murmured. She spoke perfect Greek now.
Her sympathy surprised him; but she was an altogether softer character than her sister.
“And what do you feel about your own position?”
“I am happy, master. I am happy on the sea — and with you.”
Poor Ibrahim, Harry thought, to have thrown away this chance of bliss.
“I wish there was some better way of using so much strength,” she said wistfully, again looking down at the labouring oarsmen.
“Yes,” Harry said thoughtfully.
*
At dusk a breeze sprang up from the east. The oars were shipped and the sails were set.
Khair-ed-din entertained his guests to dinner on the afterdeck.
“An east wind is good,” he said, “when one is heading west. It drives away the stink, eh?”
The old pirate could not stop himself from leering at the three women. He did not usually carry women on board his ships, unless as captured slaves.
“How
long is the voyage to Algiers?” Yana asked, suddenly.
She had the confidence to engage men in conversation as an equal, where Sasha and Tressilia waited to be addressed.
“With this wind, another six days,” Khair-ed-din told her. “And without this wind…another six days.” He gave a guffaw and poured her a goblet of wine. He paid no more than lip service to the rules of his religion, just as he paid no more than lip service to the rules of life itself.
“And will I like Algiers?”
“Oh, yes. It is a white place. The houses are white and beautiful. And the harbour is good. It is well sheltered; I have made it so. And now that it is to be ruled by a pasha it will become a true city, will it not, Hawk Pasha?”
“That is possible,” Harry agreed.
“Ahoy the deck,” came a cry from the masthead, where a lookout was maintained twenty-four hours a day.
Khair-ed-din was on his feet in an instant. “Report!”
“Lights on the starboard bow.”
Khair-ed-din climbed into the rigging, his kaftan swinging to and fro, and Harry followed him. Shading their eyes, they could make out faint glimmers on the horizon.
“Land?” Harry asked.
“There is no land between us and Italy, and that is still a hundred miles away,” Khair-ed-din said. He dropped back to the deck, where his officers had gathered. “Signal the squadron to douse all lights,” he commanded.
“Do we row?”
“Not while the breeze remains fresh. We will need our fullest speed later on. Call me the moment it drops or changes.”
He returned to the table, which was in darkness since the lanterns had been extinguished.
“Is there to be a battle?” Yana asked, excitedly.
“A battle?” Khair-ed-din guffawed. “No, no, my pretty little girl. A conquest, not a battle. But not until tomorrow. You may sleep sound.”
This was a new experience for Harry. On land, when you sighted the enemy you saw at once his size and strength, and you knew battle would be joined in a matter of hours. At sea you chased an unknown quantity. Khair-ed-din told him that the lights were undoubtedly stern lanterns, and that therefore the ships in front of them were following the same course.
“That means they are out of Crete or some such place.”
“If they are Venetian, they are our allies,” Harry pointed out.
Khair-ed-din grinned. “At sea, who’s to tell? But those are not Venetian.”
“How can you tell?”
“Were they bound for Venice they would be steering further north, to pass up the Adriatic Sea. These are holding the same course as ourselves; they are steering for the toe of Italy and the Straits of Messina. Thus they are either Neapolitan, Genoese or Spanish.”
“And you mean to have them,” Harry observed.
“That is our duty to the Sultan,” Khair-ed-din said. “Besides, it will be sport.”
He retired to his divan, but Harry remained on deck. For almost the first time in life he was anxious about the approaching encounter.
Towards dawn he dozed, to awake with a start to the sound of barked commands. The breeze had dropped. Khair-ed-din was on deck again, the sails were coming down, and the oars were dipping into the water. The rowers had enjoyed the rare luxury of almost a full night’s sleep, so the water was struck with vigour; the drumbeat had quickened.
Harry stood at the rail and peered forward. The lights were now much closer; clearly the ships had no idea they were being stalked. He looked to left and right, noting the tell-tale flurries of white as the oars from the other galleys cut through the slight sea. But they would only be visible from close to.
The darkness began to fade to grey. Khair-ed-din joined him. The lights in front of them grew faint.
The daylight improved, and the sea itself was grey. To either side the galleys sliced through the water; each had a cannon mounted on its bow, the eager gunners bending over their pieces to sight them.
And there, in front of them, were three high-sided round tubs of merchantmen.
“Genoese carracks,” Khair-ed-din growled. “How fortunate can we be?”
Harry chewed his lip. He remembered his uncle telling him of how his grandfather, Anthony, had spoken of the siege of Constantinople, and of how the Genoese warships had cut through the Turkish fleet on their way to the Golden Horn, their iron-shod prows splintering the oars as if they were straws.
But those had been smaller galleys then, manned by inexperienced crews. Khair-ed-din appeared to have no doubts. Besides, those were not warships.
The Genoese vessels continued sailing quietly for another half an hour while the galleys approached. The breeze had dropped almost to calm now, as it so often does at dawn.
The first glow of the rising sun was flickering across the morning before the watch on the carracks noticed what was behind them. By then the galleys were within a mile of their prey.
Instantly all was pandemonium. Harry could see men running to and fro, guns being loaded, boarding nets strung…
“Can they escape us?” Yana asked at his shoulder.
“I doubt it. But you must go below,” he told her.
She pouted, but obeyed him.
The corsairs were all on deck now, every man armed with a scimitar thrust through his belt, a boarding pike clutched in his hand.
“Fire!” Khair-ed-din bellowed, and the cannon roared. His shot was wide, but the other five galleys also fired as soon as their admiral did so, and two of the balls smashed into the sterns of the carracks, without doing appreciable damage.
The Genoese fired in turn, but their hastily aimed shots all plunged into the sea.
“Attack speed!” Khair-ed-din shouted, standing at the break of the poop, hands tight on the rail.
“Gags!” commanded the officer beneath him.
Every galley slave had, slung round his neck on a length of line, a wooden bolt about six inches long and two in diameter. These they now thrust between their teeth as the drumbeat quickened to a stroke a second, and the deckmasters strode to and fro, their whips flailing across naked backs.
“If they do not use these gags, they begin to scream and howl,” Khair-ed-din explained. “No one would be able to hear my orders.”
The galleys were now closing the distance at great speed; what wind there was did no more than flutter the carracks’ sails. Their crews lined their decks and began firing with handguns, but again did almost no damage.
“They are merchant sailors,” Khair-ed-din said contemptuously. “They know nothing of fighting.”
Harry knew a curious sensation. If he had spent his entire adult life campaigning, it had always been against other soldiers. When civilians had been executed, it had been a deliberate act of policy, committed in cold blood away from the arena. Now he was about to fight against civilians for the first time.
“Come,” Khair-ed-din said, and hurried forward. Harry followed him to where some fifty of the corsair’s crew were gathered.
They were now within a hundred yards of the carrack they had chosen as their victim, and a second of the pirate galleys was close behind them; the squadron had broken into pairs, two to each of the Genoese.
Faces, some shouting, others grimly silent, appeared at the bulwark above them. Arquebuses exploded; boiling water was poured on to the heads of the Turks and rocks were thrown, taken from the ballast in the hold.
Nothing made any difference. As soon as the galley was close enough, grappling-irons were hurled, snaking through the air at the ends of their lines to lodge on the gunwales. Instantly the bow of the galley was pulled right under the stern of the carrack, and secured. The oars were shipped, and the corsairs went swarming up the ropes.
Frantically the Genoese slashed at the ropes with swords and axes. Several parted and the men on them fell into the sea with howls of rage, to clamber back over the galley’s prow, dripping water. But inevitably some reached the deck, as more and more grapples were thrown. Others crashed in through the
stern windows, scattering glass as they burst into the cabin.
Harry was one of these, swinging his scimitar from left to right; the deckhead was too low for an overhead blow.
People screamed and tumbled away from the flailing steel. These were not even sailors determined at least to fight for their lives. They were stout merchants and terrified women — another new experience, for Harry had never faced a woman in battle before.
The sensible ones threw themselves on to the swords; their blood splattered across deck and bulkhead. The faint-hearted allowed themselves to be corralled in a corner of the cabin, where fingers were already snatching away their jewellery and snatching, too, at bodice and crotch.
Harry smashed his way through the closed door and ran up the ladder to the deck. Here Khair-ed-din reigned, surrounded by his men. The fight for possession of the ship was already over. The dead and wounded Genoese were being thrown over the side, as were any of the surviving crew not immediately regarded as worth keeping. The younger, more handsome sailors and the boys were kept for rape.
The women were dragged on deck and there stripped to the lewd comments and the jeers of the pirates. They were thrown on their backs to be examined for their virginity — apparently each of the corsairs regarded himself as an expert on this subject. Those pronounced virgins were at least spared further torment for the moment; they would be put on the selling block in Algiers. Those whose chasteness was in doubt were immediately put beyond recall as they were mounted by their captors, one after another. The deck became a seething mass of naked flesh and gasps and moans…and odours.
It was a bestial scene, far more so than after any land battle, and there was no escaping it. Harry was keenly aware that it was one his own mother Giovanna might so easily have endured. Sickened, he went aft, on to the high poop of the carrack, and looked down at the galleys trailing behind at the end of their warps. They, by contrast, were comparatively peaceful, with just a handful of Turks left gathered on the foredeck. But, despite his instructions, the women had come out of the cabin to see what was happening.
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