“Your men must maintain their positions, Mustafa Pasha,” Hawkwood said.
Mustafa inclined his head.
“You will have transports brought into the harbour, Piale Pasha.”
Piale Pasha bowed in turn.
“But can we not first oversee the surrender?” Mustafa asked. His subservience was almost disturbing.
“Of course we must do that,” Anthony agreed, and started forward, followed by the various generals and an escort of sipahis.
Out of the ruined gateway there came first a group of mounted officers whose horses could hardly stand. They were led by Brigadino himself, and he courteously introduced his commanding general, Astor Baglione, to the Ottoman pashas.
Then the remaining defenders slowly filed out, piling their arms as they did so. The Turks continued to cheer and play their triumphal music; the Venetians walked with downcast heads and bowed shoulders, their feet shambling through the sand. They were all clearly starving, and a good number of them were wounded.
Lastly came the women and children. These too looked starved and weak, and terrified now as they gazed at the fierce-visaged Turks to every side.
“Your people will encamp by the shore,” Anthony told Brigadino. “My ships will be ready to begin transporting them tomorrow.”
When the last of them had left, Anthony rode into the city — to find a charnel-house. Rotting bodies lay unburied in the streets, rats ran freely before his horse. Brigadino accompanied him, and showed him the arsenal, where there was hardly enough powder left for a single volley.
“You were brave men,” Hawkwood told him. “I wish I had been sent sooner. Now, come, you will be my guest on board the flagship.”
“I must stay with my people.”
“That is not necessary. They are being fed, and they will not be harmed. You have my word but, come, let us be sure of it.”
Together they rode to the beach where the Venetians waited, a huddle of exhausted and frightened men, women and children. Food and water from the Ottoman camp was being distributed.
“How hungrily your people stare at mine,” Brigadino observed. “Like wolves surrounding a flock of sheep.”
But nevertheless he was reassured and, with Baglione, accepted Anthony’s invitation to dine on board the flagship.
“Ah, to breathe clean air again,” Brigadino said. “What will you do with the city?”
“It will be rebuilt,” Anthony told him. “Our master the Padishah has in mind the establishment of a Jewish colony on the island.”
“Your master is a remarkable man,” Brigadino acknowledged.
“When will the transports arrive?” Baglione inquired. He now wished only to be away from the scene of his defeat as rapidly as possible.
Anthony looked at Piale.
“The transports to remove the army will be here within a few days,” Piale said. “The Ottoman army.”
“What of the transports for the Venetians? I ordered them ready immediately.”
Piale looked at Pertau.
“Mustafa Pasha has countermanded that order, Hawk Pasha,” Pertau said.
“He has done what?”
“We are still at war with Venice,” Pertau explained. “Merely to return two thousand fighting men once again to take up arms against us would seem a mistake. Mustafa Pasha has decided to retain a goodly number of hostages here, to make sure that the Republic agrees to make peace.”
“Hostages?” Brigadino sat up very straight. “So this is Ottoman honesty. This is the value of your word, Hawk Pasha.”
“I assure your excellency that Mustafa Pasha has made a mistake,” Anthony said. “He has exceeded his authority, and these orders will immediately be rescinded.”
“Mustafa Pasha has already given the orders,” Pertau asserted.
As if he had intentionally timed his statement, a great wail arose from the shore.
Baglione was on his feet and running to the rail. “There is a massacre,” he yelled.
Anthony was also on his feet. “By Allah, you will put a stop to this immediately, or I will have you hanged.”
“You will have me hanged?” Pertau inquired mildly.
“You are as treacherous as any Turkish dog,” Brigadino shouted.
“Seize him!” Pertau screamed, and instantly the two Venetians were surrounded by Turkish soldiers.
Baglione drew his sword but was cut down in an instant, sprawled across the deck in his blood.
Hawkwood stared at the scene before him in total consternation.
“Are you mad?” he shouted at Pertau. “Do you not suppose the Sultan will get to know of this?”
“The Sultan already knows of it,” Pertau replied silkily.
Anthony frowned at him while an icy hand seemed to clutch his heart.
“I was given plenipotentiary powers,” he yelled.
“Indeed you were, Hawk Pasha, up to the surrender of Famagusta. But the directive from the Padishah instructed Mustafa Pasha to resume command of both fleet and army the moment the surrender was accomplished. He also instructed Mustafa Pasha to make an example of the Venetians, so that the world may know that he is not to be trifled with. He has entrusted this task to me, as I am more experienced in these matters.”
“Wretch!” Anthony shouted, and hurled himself at the general.
Pertau hastily skipped aside, and Hawkwood was seized by half a dozen soldiers. Struggling to reach his scimitar, he was then struck a blow on the back of the head. Before he could recover, his arms had been bound, his sword taken.
“Be thankful the Padishah also instructed that you were not to be harmed, Hawk Pasha,” Pertau panted.
Anthony looked at Brigadino desperately. The governor had also been secured.
“I forgive you, Hawk,” Brigadino said bitterly. “But may your people rot in hell.” He turned his head to listen to the bestial sounds which were drifting towards them from the shore, then looked at Pertau. “Will you not strike off my head, and put me from my misery?”
Pertau grinned. “You are to be the example which will strike terror into the hearts of all Christendom, monsignore,” he said. “Besides, it will be sport.”
Brigadino’s face paled and he looked at Hawkwood, who could still not believe that Selim had so betrayed him.
“Prepare him for the flaying,” Pertau commanded.
Brigadino gasped in horror, but he was helpless. As the Turks stripped him of his clothing, Anthony wrestled unavailingly with his bonds.
“Piale,” he appealed. “This man fought you honourably to a standstill. Can you now torture him to death?”
“It is the Sultan’s will,” Piale told him.
Pertau ordered, “Cut off his ears.”
Brigadino had been forced naked into a chair, and now two knives flashed in the sun. The pieces of flesh fell to the deck, and blood tricked down the side of Brigadino’s face. He uttered a moan.
Pertau sat opposite, smiling. “Now his nose.”
‘Pertau,” Anthony begged. “Ask of me what you will. It will be yours, if you will but behead him swiftly.”
“You have nothing that I wish, Hawk Pasha,” Pertau pointed out. “And these are the orders of the Padishah.”
Brigadino’s nose was thrown to the deck beside the severed ears.
A single tear rolled down the Venetian’s cheeks. He knew what would be next. Brigadino was stretched on the deck, his legs held firmly by several of the Turks, while others castrated him. His body heaved, and flecks of foam appeared on his lips as he bit them to prevent himself from crying out.
“Now flay him,” Pertau told his people.
Anthony wished to look away, but could not. He knew what he was seeing would remain imprinted upon his mind for ever.
The grisly task was undertaken by two surgeons brought specially on board. They worked with great care, first opening the flesh with their razor-sharp blades, then peeling it away, slicing but always retaining the skin as a whole.
Now even Brigadino
’s courage could not stand the pain, and he screamed inarticulately, his voice high and terrifying in its intensity. From time to time he fainted, but the sailors were alert and emptied buckets of water over his head to revive him.
Anthony wished he could faint himself.
The flaying took some two hours to complete. Pertau called for sherbets, and he and Piale sucked the water ices while watching their captive’s torment. They even offered one to Hawkwood, but he spat at them.
All the while, from the beach, the sounds of the bestial torment the other Venetians and their women were undergoing filled the afternoon air. But none of them suffered so much as their governor.
Hawkwood’s brain was in turmoil as he watched and listened. He felt physically sick, but consumed with anger and self-hatred for having allowed himself to be associated with these evil people.
Allowed himself? — he had had little choice. That decision had been made more than a century earlier, by his illustrious forebears.
John Hawkwood the first, who had built the cannon to knock down the walls of Constantinople.
Anthony Hawkwood the first, who had been the intimate of the man they had called “Drinker of Blood”.
William Hawkwood, who had ruthlessly carried out every order given him by Selim the Grim and Suleiman the Magnificent.
Harry Hawkwood, who had carried the Sultan’s banner into the Atlantic…and been assassinated for his loyalty.
And now himself, Anthony Hawkwood the younger, who had been able to dream of nothing better than serving these sultans as his ancestors had done. So could he honestly claim to be any better than these people before him? Yes, he thought fiercely: because I have never broken my word, nor tortured a man to death.
When at last the entire envelope of skin had been carefully removed, leaving only a bloody mess on the deck, Pertau clapped his hands. “That was well done,” he said. “Wash it well, and cure it, and then stuff it with straw and stitch it back together. We will return to Istanbul with the Venetian flying from my yardarm.”
“And the rest, my lord Pasha?” inquired one of the surgeons, looking down at the still moving mass of gory flesh, whence inarticulate sounds issued from the torn lips.
“Cut off the head and cure that as well. I shall mount it on a spear. As for the rest, throw it to the fish.”
A scimitar flashed in the evening sun, and Brigadino’s agony was at last ended. Four men picked up the unspeakable remains and tossed them over the side. Others hurried forward with buckets to wash away the blood.
Pertau smiled at Anthony. “Was that not sport? Now come, Hawk Pasha, forget your anger. It is done, and you have pleased the Padishah. And we have won a great victory. Will you not celebrate with us?”
Anthony stared at him. “May Allah have mercy upon your soul, Pertau Pasha,” he said. “Because I will have none on your body.”
20
The Escape
Pertau Pasha merely glowered at Hawkwood, then shrugged.
“You had best keep him bound until you regain Istanbul,” he advised Piale Pasha. “There he can tell his troubles to the Sultan.”
Anthony was forced into a chair on the afterdeck, and firmly tied to it. Two armed guards stood over him at all times, preventing any attempt to break free.
The sounds of the massacre on the shore were dying down as the Ottomans ran out of victims, but they were far from finished celebrating their victory. Anthony watched them go into the city, then listened to sounds of destruction drifting across the water.
Piale Pasha stood beside him. “They are digging up all the Christian graves in the church of St Nicholas,” the admiral explained, “and scattering the bones. This is Mustafa’s wish.”
“Are you proud of your part in this, Piale?”
“I obey the wishes of our master the Sultan,” the man replied. “You would do well to study this, Hawk Pasha.”
*
I would do well to study this, Anthony brooded, as the galleys at last weighed anchor and the Ottoman fleet turned its prows for Istanbul.
Indeed he must. He did not know what reception he would receive at the Porte, but his own mind was all but made up. He could no longer serve such a man as Selim the Sot, unless Selim utterly disavowed the actions of Mustafa and punished his general. But there seemed little prospect of that.
That meant Anthony could no longer remain in Istanbul, because he now knew he had no friends there. Even Sokullu could no longer so be considered. Perhaps he had been a friend once, but the Vizier had certainly started to look to his own affairs — and had married into the Sultan’s family to protect himself. Sokullu would certainly have penned the fatal order which had condemned Brigadino to such a terrible death, but he had not thought fit to warn Anthony of the falseness of his position.
Brigadino! And, now, his own reputation. Anthony Hawkwood would become the most hated man in Christendom when news of the destruction of Famagusta was circulated.
Yet if he would bring a stop to this Ottoman curse, it was only to Christendom that he could turn.
He almost smiled in his impotent fury. Only fifteen years ago he had been a carefree youth. Then his only ambition had been to return to Istanbul and claim his heritage, establish his reputation, serve the Sultan as his ancestors had done. So much for ambition and glory. Now he must be twice a renegade.
Yet he still dreamed of a miracle. The Hawkwoods had served the Ottomans for too long lightly reject them now.
As the fleet finally steered up the Bosphorus, Piale had his bonds removed. “Shall we not return together as conquerors,” he asked, “and share the glory?”
“I intend to denounce you to the Sultan,” Anthony hissed at him.
“That is your privilege, Hawk Pasha. Be sure only that you do not denounce yourself, instead.”
As the galleys turned into the Golden Horn, they were greeted by loud cheers from both banks. For a galliot had been sent on ahead to convey the news of the fall of Famagusta, and Istanbul was en fête. Not even the extreme August heat could lessen the enthusiasm of the crowds. Anthony looked up the hill outside Galata to the Hawk Palace. It, too, was decked in flags and pennants. Across the water there drifted the shouts of “Hawk Pasha! Hawk Pasha!”
“You see that we have given you all the credit, Hawk,” Piale said coaxingly.
Anthony merely glanced at him, then away. He was in no mood to be suborned by praise.
*
To his surprise, he found Ali Monizindade Pasha also within the Porte at the Seraglio. Ali embraced him warmly.
“Why so grim, Hawk Pasha?” he asked. “Are you not the victor of the hour? My own small successes are quite forgotten beneath the weight of your triumph.”
“You have encountered the Papal fleet?”
Ali smiled. “I had no such fortune. They are still gathering at Messina. Whether they will continue to do so — since their purpose was to relieve Famagusta — no man can say. But at least I have swept the Adriatic clear of Christian shipping. And I have taken my ships into the lagoon of Venice itself to burn their ships. Oh, they will not forget the name of Ali Pasha in a hurry.”
“And where are your ships now?” Hawkwood inquired.
“I was tempted to remain off Venice, but then I realised I could be bottled up there, should a Christian fleet appear to my south. So I returned to the Ionian Sea, and have taken my fleet up the Gulf of Patras. The ships are anchored in security there, using Lepanto as their base. From there they can easily head out to give battle should the Christians approach; I keep a guard squadron of galliots always watching the heel of Italy. I doubt we will ever see them now. Although, if we do, it will please me greatly to have you amongst my admirals.”
Sokullu joined them. “Hawk Pasha!” He too embraced the angry giant. “The Padishah awaits you.” He turned to Piale. “Where is Mustafa?”
“He has remained in Cyprus, Vizier, to oversee our victory. I have a despatch from him.”
Sokullu took the parchment. “I will stud
y this. Come, Hawk. The Padishah is eager to speak with you.”
They entered the palace together.
“Why did you not warn me I was to be betrayed?” Hawkwood murmured furiously. “You knew of the Padishah’s secret orders, Mahomet. No doubt they were written under your seal.”
“Ah. Yes,” Sokullu said. “I regret that, Anthony, but I was acting under the command of the Padishah himself.”
“Everyone shelters under the command of the Padishah,” Anthony observed bitterly.
“Is it not our duty? As you once insisted to me?”
Hawkwood had no reply to make to that.
“I can only beg of you,” Sokullu said, “to do nothing rash. It would be foolish again to disgrace yourself for the sake of a few Venetians.”
“And my word? My honour?”
“A man’s honour, like his life, is in the keeping of the Padishah. Had the Sultan commanded you to die, would you not have done so?”
“I would have done so sooner than surrender my honour, Mahomet.”
“Then you would have been a fool.” They had reached the door to the council chamber, and Sokullu rested his hand upon Hawkwood’s arm. “Had I told you what was contained in those instructions to Mustafa, you might have refused to carry out your mission. Certainly you might have been unable to convince Brigadino of your honesty. Either would have been disastrous for you and yours. If I have offended you, I am deeply sorry. I did as I thought best. Now again I beg of you: look to yourself.”
The doors were opening, and they were admitted to the presence of the Sultan.
Selim’s divan was surrounded by his pashas and by armed guards. Nasi stood beside him.
The Sultan was smiling as he beheld Anthony’s great frame.
“Hawk Pasha!” he said. “Come forward.”
Anthony advanced to within six feet of the divan, and bowed.
“You have carried out my orders,” Selim said. “I am pleased. As of now you are restored to all your commands — and I appoint you vice-admiral under Ali Monizindade Pasha.”
Hawkwood straightened. “The Padishah is most generous. And what of Pertau Pasha?”
Selim frowned. “He will be amply rewarded as well, Hawk Pasha. All who took part in the reduction of Famagusta will be rewarded.”
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