Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

Anthony frowned. “Is he not Philip’s half-brother?”

  “That is correct. He is the son of the Emperor Charles V and one of his mistresses, a German lady named Barbara Blomberg. Well, this Don Juan is to be put in command of an allied fleet, including squadrons from Spain, the Papacy, Genoa and Venice. Genoa and Venice fighting in harness! That is something that has never happened in history before. It has taken our Sultan to achieve the impossible.”

  “But this Don Juan can hardly be more than a boy,” Anthony protested.

  “He is twenty-three years old,” Sokullu said.

  “Then he can hardly have the experience to defeat Ali Monizindade, even with the greater fleet.”

  “You think so? Alexander the Great was no older when he defeated the Persians. Mahomet the Conqueror was younger when he took Constantinople. Do not be deceived by age, Hawk Pasha…or lack of it. This Don Juan has a most formidable reputation as a soldier. Our best hope lies in the fact that this fleet is not yet assembled — and that there are still a great many mutual suspicions to be overcome on the Christian side. I can tell you that the Venetians have already sent an envoy secretly to Istanbul, seeking peace terms; they would pay a huge indemnity were they to be left in possession of Cyprus. The Padishah has turned them down, of course, but it shows the way their thinking is going. They would prefer to be rid of the war, which so interferes with their trade, than be avenged upon us. Should we be able to take Famagusta rapidly, and put an end to the campaign, I suspect the Venetians would accept the situation and make peace on any terms. Then this coalition will doubtless dissolve before it ever comes to a fight.”

  “Famagusta will be defended to the last man,” Anthony told him, “both because Brigadino will know that a fleet is gathering for his succour, and because he will also know that the Nicosia garrison was massacred. He will never surrender.”

  “Then the place must fall to assault,” Sokullu growled. “And soon.”

  *

  But Marcantonio Brigadino, the Venetian commander, although he had only five and a half thousand men, was determined to fight to the last, as Hawkwood had prophesied.

  In this he was helped by the weather, which soon deteriorated to the extent where any question of assault must clearly wait until the following spring. Mustafa Pasha therefore went into winter quarters, but the winds kept blowing the Turkish fleet off station, forcing it to shelter, and so allowing Venetian carracks to reach the port and replenish its supplies. Nor could it be doubted that Brigadino was sparing no efforts to improve his defences in preparation for the coming assault.

  Now news drifted into Istanbul that an allied fleet was actually beginning to assemble in Messina. Sokullu began to pull at his beard.

  “Oh, to see them smashed,” Barbara whispered, staring down at the Golden Horn from the windows of her bedchamber. “Oh, to see the Christian fleet coming up the Bosphorus.”

  “That will never happen,” Anthony told her. “And if it did, I should have to go out and fight them, and no doubt die while doing so. Besides, you are speaking treason.”

  *

  Everyone in Istanbul pinned hopes on a quick and decisive victory in the spring. And as soon as the weather improved sufficiently, Mustafa Pasha launched his troops against the walls of Famagusta. He outnumbered the defenders by more than ten to one, and he possessed a great deal of artillery, yet he still could not batter his way through the walls and the ditches, and in Brigadino the Venetians at last had a commander worthy of the name.

  Spring drifted into summer, and still the Venetians fought, and still news kept arriving of the increasing number of Christian warships assembling in the Straits of Messina and the harbours to the south.

  It was early in July when Hawkwood received a summons to the Seraglio, where he was ushered into the presence of the Sultan, who was attended by Nasi and Sokullu,

  “Well, Hawk Pasha,” Selim said. This day he had already been drinking heavily; his eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. “Have you enjoyed your holiday?”

  “I had far sooner serve you, O Padishah, if I can do so with honour.”

  “Ha,” Selim commented. “Then you shall. This business in Cyprus must be ended quickly, and by whatever means can come to hand. Certainly before this Christian fleet can make a nuisance of itself. You will leave for Cyprus within the week.”

  “Padishah…”

  “I am well aware of your reluctance to break your word and fight against your wife’s people,” Selim said. “I am sending you to end this war, not to fight it. Mustafa Pasha informs me that he has appealed to this Brigadino to surrender with all the honours of war, and that the man has refused to entertain such a suggestion, claiming that he cannot trust a Turkish pasha to keep his word.

  “Now, Hawk Pasha, Mahomet Sokullu has reminded me that your great-uncle negotiated the surrender of the fortress of Rhodes, by offering an honourable safe-conduct to the defenders.”

  “It is true, O Padishah.” Hawkwood’s heartbeat quickened.

  “And if you were to go to Cyprus and offer the same terms to Brigadino, would he not accept?”

  “He might, O Padishah. But he would have to be certain of my authority.”

  “He will be. I will grant you plenipotentiary powers to obtain the surrender of Famagusta. Use whatever means you wish. Mustafa Pasha and Piale Pasha will be informed that they are your subordinates until the place is ours. Is that sufficient?”

  “It is sufficient,” Anthony assured him. “I will leave within the week.”

  Sokullu accompanied him outside. “Are you sure you can accomplish this?” the Vizier inquired.

  “I would think so.”

  “You must do more than think, Hawk Pasha. The Sultan remains displeased with you. I can tell you now that he has several times considered sending you a bowstring, for your defiance of him. I alone have protected you. It was my idea that your family’s reputation for honour could be used in our present situation. Should you fail to obtain Brigadino’s surrender, then it were best you never returned to Istanbul.”

  “As you are telling me this, you must still be my friend,” Hawkwood remarked.

  “I have always been your friend, Anthony. I will always be your friend.”

  “Then will you make it possible for me to take my wife and children, my mother and my old nurse, with me to Cyprus?”

  Sokullu hesitated, then shook his head. “I cannot do that, Anthony, not even for you. It would mean my own ruin. It would be treason, as it would make it easy for you to desert the Padishah without making an attempt to bring Brigadino to terms.”

  “So my family is to be held hostage for my success.”

  Sokullu shrugged. “A man can always find another family.”

  “Not this man.”

  Sokullu clasped his arm. “Then succeed, Hawk Pasha. Succeed — and be restored to favour.”

  *

  “Restored to favour,” Felicity said. “Oh, happy day.”

  Barbara, predictably, was crushed. “You go to bring about the ruin of my country,” she said sadly.

  “I go to end the war,” Anthony told her, “which, if it continues, will involve the deaths of a great many of your people. Can you reproach me for that?”

  She sighed. “No, my lord. I must wish you success. And a safe and speedy return.”

  He kissed her, embraced his sons, and went down to the waiting galley.

  *

  It took four days to row south across the sparkling Aegean, round the island of Crete, and thence south-eastward to the mountains of Cyprus, so close to the coast of Turkey that it really was surprising no sultan had already claimed it. But great warriors like Mahomet and Selim the Grim and Suleiman had understood too much of diplomacy; not only was an ally in the West of intrinsic value, but it also kept Christendom in a state of turmoil and uncertainty, made the efforts of Pope or Emperor to unite against the Turks all come to naught. Cyprus was a small price to pay for that.

  As Sokullu had truly said, it had take
n the careless arrogance of Selim the Sot to unite all Christendom.

  ***

  The five galleys of Hawkwood’s little squadron rounded Cape Gata and in Akrotiri Bay, beneath the looming shadow of Mount Olympus, found a much larger squadron of Turkish ships guarding the seaward approaches to the besieged town.

  These saluted the pennants flying from the mastheads of the arriving squadron, and their admiral entertained Anthony to supper.

  “It is good to see you back in command, Hawk Pasha,” he said. “Now perhaps, we will be able to bring these Venetians down.”

  Next day Larnaca Bay was crossed, and Cape Greco rounded. Now Famagusta Bay lay in front of them, almost the entire stretch of water to Cape Elea — nearly forty miles distant — being covered with the galleys of the Turkish fleet, most at anchor but with some smaller galliots plying back and forth.

  Hawkwood’s squadron brought up, and he was ferried across to Piale Pasha’s flagship.

  The Hungarian renegade did not look pleased to see him, for all that they had sailed together as boys with Dragut.

  “I had supposed you had no stomach for this war, Hawk Pasha,” he remarked.

  “I have come to end it.”

  Piale Pasha merely snorted.

  “There are despatches,” Anthony said, and gave him the sealed envelope.

  They sat together on the afterdeck while the admiral read. Anthony had no idea what Sokullu had written, at the behest of the Sultan, but Piale Pasha’s brows drew together in a frown as he studied the words.

  At last he raised his head. “You are in supreme command of the fleet,” he said in wonderment.

  Anthony smiled at him. “Briefly, I would hope. But I am also in supreme command of the army. Let us visit Lala Mustafa.”

  The general appeared even more astonished than the admiral to discover Hawkwood in his midst. Anthony was more interested in the scenes at which he had been gazing as he and Piale were rowed ashore and they had ridden up to the Turkish headquarters.

  He could immediately understand the difficulties of this siege. Not only were the walls of the town among the most massive he had ever seen outside of Istanbul itself, but the approach was difficult because of the silting up of the river Pedieas just north of the town, which had turned the area outside the walls into a sandtrap — the very word famagusta meaning “buried in the sand”.

  Two hundred years before, this had been one of the richest cities in Christendom, situated on the trade route from Palestine to the West; and the island itself had been held by various crusading families ever since Richard the Lionheart had seized it on his way to the Third Crusade. Rules by the kings of House of Lusignan for many years, it had been the widow of the last Lusignan, Catherine Cornaro, who had sold it to the Venetians.

  Barbara’s great-aunt, Anthony reflected. How she would have been intrigued to accompany him here today.

  But then again, perhaps not. Everywhere there was evidence of the siege and its repeated battles. Abandoned mineshafts left huge craters in the earth; parts of the city walls had crumbled and lay as huge mounds of stone; there had been fires inside the town itself, and in places these still smouldered, sending thin columns of smoke up into the still air.

  And over all there hung the stench of death arising from the unburied corpses to be seen everywhere.

  “It has been a grim business,” Piale Pasha acknowledged.

  Mustafa ushered them into his tent, then opened his despatch, reading it slowly and carefully. He too frowned at the beginning, but the frown faded as he read through to the end. He folded the parchment, and handed it to Pertau Pasha, his second-in-command. Pertau also read it, his face expressionless. But when he raised his head to look at Hawkwood, his eyes were gleaming strangely.

  Anthony already knew that Pertau held him in contempt. Well, the feeling was mutual.

  “You are here to negotiate, Hawk Pasha,” Mustafa spoke at last. “I wish you joy of it.”

  “The siege must be ended within a month,” Anthony confirmed. “That is the order of the Padishah.”

  “I wish you joy of it,” Mustafa said again.

  *

  Next morning Anthony rode forward beneath a flag of truce. The Turkish guns were silent, and the Venetian guns also fell silent as they discerned his approach.

  When a quarter of a mile from the gate, he commanded his escort to halt, then advanced with only his standard-bearer.

  The main gate had been the centre of the fiercest assaults, and was no more than a heap of rubble, its drawbridge collapsed into the dry moat and the portcullis a twisted mess of iron. But it was still defended, and as Hawkwood approached many heads appeared amongst the stones.

  “Halt there, Ottoman,” someone called.

  Anthony drew rein. “I seek General Brigadino. Tell him that Hawk Pasha wishes to speak with him.”

  His name had an effect. There was some movement behind the stones, and two men hurried off.

  Anthony sat in his saddle and gazed at the walls. More and more men were gathering there, and it would take but a single hothead to lose control…but they must know that he was their only hope of life.

  He had waited fully half an hour when at last a man clambered on to the rubble and stood gazing at him. He was small and in early middle age, Anthony estimated, for he had removed his helmet and his dark hair fluttered in the gentle breeze rising from the sea as the land heated up.

  “Has the Sultan sent a new commander for the coup de grâce?” he inquired.

  “On the contrary, your excellency,” Hawkwood replied. “The Sultan would end this war, with your compliance.”

  Brigadino stared at him, then past him at the Turkish encampment, the green and crimson banners, the masses of men; almost every soldier in the army was watching the negotiation. Mustafa Pasha and Pertau Pasha and their subordinate generals were mounted and waiting in a group before their troops.

  Anthony used the pause to study Brigadino. The Venetian’s face was haggard, his cheeks sunken. Clearly he was exhausted, and equally clearly half-starved.

  “You serve the Ottomans,” Brigadino said at last. “What man can put any faith in a treaty with the Ottomans? Are not we of Venice your oldest allies, yet you have made war upon us?”

  “I know nothing of affairs of state,” Anthony told him. “I am a sailor and a soldier. I refused to war upon you, as I am married to a Venetian myself. The Padishah accepted my decision, but now he has empowered me to offer you honourable terms of capitulation.”

  Brigadino snorted. “You mean he has heard that a great fleet is coming to our succour, and wishes to trick us into surrender before it arrives.”

  “It is true that a Christian fleet gathers, Your Excellency,” Hawkwood acknowledged. “But it is far from ready to sail, and its headquarters are in Messina and a long way from Famagusta. Between Italy and Cyprus there waits the fleet of Ali Pasha, ready to do battle. There is no hope of succour for your people before next year. Meanwhile, do you not starve? Have you not fired off nearly all of your ammunition?”

  This last was a shot in the dark, although a reasonable conjecture. How accurate he knew immediately from the twist of Brigadino’s lips.

  “The terms I offer are these,” Hawkwood went on: “That your men lay down their arms, though your officers may keep their swords. Then you will march out of the city and be conveyed aboard our ships, to be removed to the nearest neutral territory.”

  “You say nothing of our women and children,” Brigadino pointed out.

  “You may take them with you,” Anthony assured him.

  “You are truly empowered to make such an offer?”

  “I am plenipotentiary for the Sultan,” Anthony said.

  Brigadino stared at him. “You serve the Ottomans,” he said once more, “and their watchword is treachery.”

  “My name is Hawkwood, as you know. Did my great-uncle betray the Knights of St John, at Rhodes?”

  Brigadino stroked his beard.

  “I pled
ge my word,” Anthony declared. “The terms I have offered you will be honoured.”

  Brigadino looked past him at the Turkish ranks. “Can you so pledge the honour of your colleagues? Of Mustafa and Piale? Of Pertau? There is a dark and evil man. We have heard how he tortures his prisoners to death.”

  “I am plenipotentiary for the Sultan,” Anthony repeated. “My word is law here.”

  Brigadino stared at him for several more seconds, then he climbed down from the rubble on to the sand. “Let me see your credentials.”

  Hawkwood dismounted and walked up to him. He handed over the Italian translation of the Sultan’s command.

  Brigadino studied it, then raised his head. “Then it seems I must trust you,” he said.

  Anthony made no reply.

  “However, I must first confer with my commanders.”

  “You have one hour,” Hawkwood told him. “In three-quarters of an hour I will fire a single cannon. Fifteen minutes after that we will resume hostilities.”

  Brigadino nodded. “I believe we will accept your offer, Hawk Pasha.” He gazed into Anthony’s eyes. “Had the Sultan sent any other commander but you, I would have continued to fight to the death.”

  As Brigadino returned inside his walls, Hawkwood rode back to the Turkish camp.

  “Well?” Mustafa Pasha demanded.

  “I have given him one hour to accept my terms,” Anthony said. “He will do so. He has no alternative.”

  “Then you are to be congratulated, Hawk Pasha. The Padishah will be well pleased with you.”

  However the army remained ready for combat. “Should the Venetians decide to fight instead, we must end it now in one great assault,” Mustafa explained.

  Time passed quickly by. The sand clock had been started only on Anthony’s return to the Turkish ranks, yet the grains seemed to flow out with remarkable speed. When three-quarters of it was gone, he commanded a gun to be fired. The explosion reverberated across the stillness.

  Almost immediately there was a flurry of activity on the walls, and the Venetian flag came fluttering down the mast.

  The Ottoman ranks erupted into cheers — while drums beat and bugles blew and cymbals clashed.