Hawkwood was so taken aback that for a moment he was unable to move. Then he put the helm down, and the Hawk came smartly about.
He looked back to where the Arab woman had gone in, but she had already disappeared from sight in the now considerable waves. He knew she had never learned to swim.
“The sail!” he shouted at Kalil, who reacted quickly. The Hawk was now sailing south again, seeking the drowning woman.
“Anthony!” Barbara shouted in alarm.
The galley was now not all that far away.
Hawkwood stared at the dark waters, as the yacht retraced her course.
There was a boom from one of the galley’s cannon. The shot was well short, but the gap was closing.
“Anthony,” Felicity begged him. “Ayesha is dead. She wished it so. For God’s sake think of the living.”
Anthony looked down into the water, and saw the haik floating just beneath the surface. Of Ayesha there was no sign.
He sighed, and put the helm up again. Kalil adjusted the sail, and the galley fell astern.
“To her I betrayed a sacred trust,” Anthony said.
“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my lord.”
“No,” he agreed. “I have merely another death to avenge.”
*
The crew of the Hawk was stunned by the unexpected tragedy. The boys lost much of their ebullience, for Ayesha had been their playmate. Anthony was more crushed than any of them. Ayesha’s entire life had been devoted to him.
But there was little time for brooding. The weather would remain bad throughout the following week, but this was a benefit to the fugitives. The next day they passed through the Straits, and then made a series of long tacks, often as much as twelve hours at a time, up the Adriatic. The seas were big, and sometimes dangerous; more than once the cabin was swamped and all hands had to bail. Their food supply dwindled and they were soon down to half rations, with very little water to drink. But nothing the elements or their stomachs could do compared with having escaped the vengeance of Selim, and on the seventh day after Ayesha’s suicide, they sighted the domes of St Mark’s.
*
Their pennants had long since been blown away, and there was nothing to identify the yacht as she approached the islands which guarded the lagoon — save that the strangeness of her shape in this sea made it clear that she was not Venetian.
As they passed the outermost watchtowers, signals were flown, and at the entrance to the lagoon a small patrol galley was awaiting them. The Venetians were still clearly agitated by Ali Pasha’s raid of a month earlier.
“Where are you from,” the galley hailed, “and what is the name of your captain?”
Undoubtedly they could read the name on the bow. Anthony went forward, his head bare so that his red hair could the more easily be seen.
“I am Anthony Hawkwood,” he shouted. “Known as Hawk Pasha. I am from Istanbul.”
There was consternation on board the galley, officers conferred in great agitation, as if suspecting that their ancient enemy was but the advance guard of another Turkish fleet.
Signal flags fluttered to the galley’s masthead.
“What is your purpose here?” the captain shouted eventually.
‘I am on a mission to the Doge,” Hawkwood replied.
There was more hurried conversation. By now the flags had been observed from the shore, and another galley was putting out.
“Then make for the main quay and go alongside,” the captain instructed.
Anthony raised his hand to show that he understood, and returned aft to take the steering oar from Kalil.
‘Perhaps you ladies would care to prepare yourselves,” he suggested.
Hitherto the women had been rapt observers of the scene. Now there was almost as much commotion on board the yacht as they hurried below to wrap themselves in their haiks; Barbara’s western-style clothes had long been discarded for the harem’s pantaloons and bolero.
But Hawkwood was more interested in his surroundings, having never visited Venice before. The islands through which he was threading his way, before the light easterly breeze, were low-lying, and marked only by their several forts. In front of him, the city itself seemed to rise out of the sea, and as he drew nearer he could discern that the foundations of buildings were actually sunk into the waters of the Grand Canal. Even the square of St Mark’s, which lay directly in front of him, and was dominated by the huge cathedral, was only a few feet above sea level, and was obviously liable to be inundated by any strong easterly breeze.
He felt a slight shudder of apprehension. But surely he would not have risked so much, and survived so much to bring his family to safety merely to meet the headman’s axe?
The city was not very large, and the identity of this new arrival had clearly spread rapidly. All manner of small boats — quaintly shaped with raised bows and sterns, but entirely undecked, and propelled by means of a single oar — began to appear everywhere in the smaller canals and even in the harbour itself. The square soon became thronged with people, causing the pigeons to flutter skywards in great confusion.
But amongst the onlookers had appeared a company of soldiers, brightly clad in blue and black striped uniforms, armed with pikes as well as swords, and wearing steel helmets with ridged crowns and pronounced peaks.
Hawkwood judged his distance to perfection, and, at the command, Kalil swung the boom so that the wind was spilled from it. In almost the same moment he let the halliard go, and the sail came clouding down.
The Hawk retained just sufficient way to slide gently alongside the stone dock. John Hawkwood and his two brothers had already carried out fenders, large sausages of plaited ropes to keep the topsides of the yacht from being gashed, and now the boys also took the mooring warps ashore.
The soldiers moved forward to stand on the edge of the dock. Their captain addressed Anthony.
“Are you he known as Hawk Pasha?” he inquired.
“I am,” Anthony said.
“You will come with us, if you please. I am to take you before the Doge.”
Hawkwood nodded, and stepped ashore.
“Wait!” Barbara clambered after him. “I will come too. The Doge is my uncle.”
“I am instructed as regards Hawk Pasha alone, lady,” the captain insisted.
“You had best seek your family,” Anthony advised her gently.
“Supposing I can reach them,” Barbara muttered, gazing at the crowd which filled the square, pressing forward to the water’s edge. No one could doubt what their mood would be when they learned of what had happened in Famagusta.
Hawkwood was aware of the danger in which they now lay — and he had to be the bearer of tidings which might set that crowd alight.
He was marched hurriedly through the muttering throng, and up the wide stairs which led to the portico of the Doge’s palace. Here was a considerable number of notables gathered, amongst them a few familiar faces — either merchants who had done business in Istanbul, or past ambassadors to the Porte.
“It is Hawk Pasha,” they whispered incredulously, as they recognised the red hair and beard.
At the top of the steps several elderly men were gathered, the one in the centre standing somewhat apart. He had a long white beard and wore a curious, tight-fitting black cap on his head, rather like the Jewish custom, only considerably more elaborate. His clothes were rich, and his manner one of total omnipotence.
Hawkwood anticipated his escort, and bowed. “My lord Doge,” he said.
Alvise Mocenigo stared at him. “Hawk Pasha,” he said. “You, dare to come here, in the middle of a war between our people? Should I not hang you higher than Hamann?”
“I have much advice to offer Your Excellency,” Anthony said.
The Doge subjected his face to a close inspection. “Then speak,” he said at last.
“What I have to say is for your ears alone.”
Mocenigo considered for a moment. “My ears are those of the Council of Ten
. You will speak to them, or not at all.”
Hawkwood bowed. He had expected nothing better.
His arms were pinioned, and he was escorted inside the building and into the council chamber. Its members filed in and took their seats in high-backed chairs. The Doge sat down at the head of the table. Hawkwood stood at the front.
“Speak,” the Doge commanded.
“First, my lords,” Anthony said, “I must request a promise of safety for my family.”
“You have no rights here, Turk,” snarled one of the council.
“Unless their safety is guaranteed. I can only remain silent,” Hawkwood replied sharply.
“Ha! We’ll see how long you remain silent when you are stretched on the rack.”
Anthony gazed at the Doge. “Your Excellency, my family are innocent of any crimes I may have committed. My wife is a Venetian herself, your very own niece…”
“Whom you ravished against her will, no doubt,” growled another of the council.
Hawkwood refused to lose his temper. “That, you will have to ask the lady herself, my lord. But you have just confirmed that she must be innocent. As are her three sons.”
“Enough,” Mocenigo said. “They will not be harmed. You have my word. They will be sent to the Cornaro palace.”
‘This fellow is too bold,” someone objected.
“He is right to care for his family,” Mocenigo said, considering, no doubt, that they were his own kin, too. He rang a golden bell, and a secretary presented himself in the doorway. Mocenigo gave the necessary instructions.
“Now we have done as you wish, Hawk Pasha,” the Doge said. “It is your turn to satisfy us.”
Anthony drew a deep breath, and looked around him at the hostile faces. “The news is bad. Famagusta has fallen. Cyprus belongs to Selim.”
There was an angry murmur around the chamber.
“When did this happen?” Mocenigo interrupted.
“Less than a fortnight ago, Your Excellency.”
“We have had no word of it.”
“The Sultan is content that you should find out in his own time.”
They stared at him, and several whispered amongst themselves.
“And you are his envoy,” Mocenigo said. “Hoping to call us to surrender.”
“On the contrary. Your Excellency, I have abandoned his service. The Sultan now hates me even more than he hates Venice.”
“There is some trickery here,” someone said. “Speak plain, man. What happened at Famagusta? The citadel was impregnable.”
“No citadel is impregnable, my lord. The garrison held out until they were destitute of food and ammunition. Then they surrendered on terms.” He took another long breath. “I have to tell you that the terms were not honoured by the Turkish commanders, and your garrison has been massacred to the last child.”
The room hissed to the sharp intakes of breath.
“The terms of surrender were negotiated by…myself,” Hawkwood told him.
A rustle went right round the table as men sat up straight.
“And you have the effrontery to stand here before us and admit this?” Mocenigo demanded.
“Yes. Because I myself did not break the terms. The moment the garrison had laid down its arms, I was superseded. That is why I have left the service of the Sultan. My honour has been besmirched.”
“And yet you have come to us,” Mocenigo brooded. “You must have some reason, since you know we will not forgive such perfidy.”
Anthony looked straight ahead. “I have come to you because my heart cries out for vengeance, no less than yours. I have come to warn you that if the fleet now assembling at Messina should disband without firing a shot, it would be a disaster for all Christendom. By this time next year the Turks would again be encamped before the gates of Vienna, and Ali Pasha’s galleys will be in your lagoon again, for certain. The Ottomans must be stopped now — and you will never have a greater opportunity. But give me a fleet, and I myself will tackle Ali Pasha. I know the man.”
There was another rustle of muttered comment round the table.
“I can do this, my lords,” Hawkwood insisted. “I have sailed with the Turks, I have commanded their fleets, I know how they can be defeated.”
“You expect us to give you, Hawk Pasha, the command of our fleet?” someone demanded in outrage.
“I do not ask the command for Hawk Pasha,” Anthony declared desperately. “I ask it for Anthony Hawkwood.”
Mocenigo stared at him for several seconds, then said, “Withdraw, monsignore, while we discuss in private what you have told us.”
The sergeant of the guard touched Anthony on the shoulder, and led him from the council room into a small antechamber. This had a window, to which Anthony immediately went. But it overlooked not the square, only the next small canal — and to his right he could make out the infamous Bridge of Sighs.
For at least half an hour he waited, watched impassively by the guards — until the door at last opened and a secretary entered.
“You will come with me, signore,” he said.
Anthony followed the man back into the council chamber. He was not aware of fear, or even apprehension. Rather he felt suspended in time, until the judgement was given.
As he studied the faces of the men seated round the table, not one gave any indication of their inner feelings, or how they had voted.
“Anthony Hawkwood, known as Hawk Pasha,” the Doge said, “you are well known as a lifelong enemy of Christendom. But there are records in this city of how your ancestor, William Hawkwood, visited our Republic as an ambassador from the Porte. He was welcomed by the Doge and given every assistance. For those were the days when Venice and the Porte had an understanding, an alliance. Now that alliance is ended, by the whim of your Sultan. Now we are at war, and you come to us as an enemy, and one, moreover, responsible for a hideous crime. We cannot absolve you of the burden of guilt which you, and every Turk, now wears for all time.
“That you ask for the command of a fleet is sheer effrontery. It is therefore the decision of this Council that you be taken from here across the bridge to the prison, and there executed. This will be our first act of reprisal against the Ottomans for their perfidy at Famagusta.”
21
The Don
“The sentence,” the Doge continued, “is to be carried out at dawn on the day after tomorrow.”
Heads turned in surprise, and Anthony gathered that it was the usual custom for death sentences to be carried out immediately.
But for the moment he was too shocked to consider what that might signify. He was not afraid of death: he had spent all his life in close proximity to it. But to die before he had had an opportunity to avenge the disgrace forced upon him by Selim and his commanders, before he had had an opportunity to remove the stain on his family name, for generations to come, seemed insufferable. At a time when the West so much needed him.
“Take the prisoner away,” Mocenigo commanded abruptly.
Hawkwood was touched on the shoulder by the sergeant of the guard. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought better of it. He would not stoop to beg these haughty, heedless oligarchs.
At least he was not to be exposed to the jeers of the mob, but instead was taken down a side corridor to that bridge he had regarded earlier, whose curving arch led him over the canal, and whose tightly latticed sides again prevented him from being seen or identified by any watcher.
He understood that this procedure was less for the sake of the prisoner’s feelings than because, as the judgements of the Council of Ten were arbitrary and often designed to rid themselves of troublemakers and possible rivals rather than to forward the cause of justice, it was often necessary that a condemned man be spirited away and executed before his friends knew what was happening and could raise the mob in his support.
There was no chance of any mob coming to his aid, Hawkwood knew; rather would they cheer at his execution.
Once across the bridge, he found h
imself in another building, and was taken down several flights of stairs into the cell which was to be his last home on earth. He was relieved to think he would only spend twenty-four hours here. The dungeon was below the level of the canal; as well as smelling like the inside of a sewer, it was extremely damp, the only sound being the constant dripping of water — the floor was covered to a depth of two inches — and the scurrying of rats.
At least, in mid-August, it was not cold.
Inside the cell, his bonds were removed, but instead his ankles were chained to a heavy iron ball. This left his arms free to chase away the rats, but made movement a slow and painful business.
He had not been ill-treated in any way, and no sooner was he safely chained than his gaolers brought him some very palatable food, mainly pasta, as well as wine and water. Nor was there any indication that he was to be tortured — although it was difficult to think of any other reason for Mocenigo’s decision to postpone his execution by an extra day. Hawkwood found himself wondering how he would react when faced with either the rack or the axe. He remembered Prince Bayazid: another crime to lay at his door, and carried out in the name of the Sultan.
There was no window in the cell, and he did not suppose the candle would last very much longer. He supposed his best choice would be to sit on the ball to which his chains were attached, and this he managed to push into the driest corner of the cell. There he was for the moment reasonably comfortable, with only his feet wet, while the rats regarded him from a distance. They would wait for him to fall asleep before attacking.
Leaning back against the wall, he thought of Barbara and his sons. He had to believe that Mocenigo would have kept his word, and sent them all in safekeeping to the Cornaros…and that Barbara would be welcomed by her family. If that could be so, then the three boys might yet grow up to be of some service both to Venice and to Christendom.
He was very tired after the tensions of the long voyage from Istanbul, and dosed off during the afternoon. As a result he slipped from his ball and landed in the water with a splash, which awoke him and frightened off the rats.
The candle had by now gone out. Thoroughly uncomfortable, he stood up for a while, hoping his clothes would dry faster. Then he heard the bolt being drawn on the door.
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