Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  He certainly had not been in the cell twenty-four hours yet, so presumably he was, after all, to be put to the torture.

  Aware of a quickening heartbeat, he faced the door as it swung inwards.

  In came the same gaoler as earlier, carrying a torch, but now he was accompanied by another man, richly dressed and of considerable age; his features were gnarled and jowly yet wind-and sun-burned.

  Hawkwood realised he was in the presence of a seaman, like himself. And, further, who this man had to be.

  “Hawk Pasha,” the man said, “it is an honour to stand face to face with you. I am Sebastian Viniero.”

  “Then am I also privileged, monsignore,” Anthony told him. He knew that Viniero was Admiral in command of all the Venetian fleets and, although he was seventy-five years old, was still a feared antagonist.

  “You have abandoned the Sultan, and aim to fight against him?” Viniero said.

  “I had hoped to do so, certainly.” Hawkwood looked down at his chained ankles. “But it seems that I am prevented.”

  “Strike off those chains,” Viniero instructed the gaoler. “Here is the warrant.” He unrolled his piece of parchment.

  The gaoler peered first at the seal, then took one of the keys from his belt and knelt to unlock the fetters.

  “You have not been harmed?” Viniero inquired.

  “No, monsignore.”

  “Good. Then come with me.”

  Anthony was led through another succession of corridors, to emerge into a courtyard. Here waited some more men, who provided him with a voluminous cloak to conceal his clothes, and a heavy-brimmed hat.

  “Hold your cloak close,” Viniero warned. “You must conceal your beard.”

  Thus wrapped up, Hawkwood was led from the courtyard and down some steps to the canal, where a gondola waited. He and Viniero got into it, and the boat was pushed away. For a few minutes Anthony enjoyed some warming sunshine piercing the range of houses to either side.

  “You will understand,” Viniero warned, “that to escape my custody would only lead to your death here in Venice.”

  Hawkwood nodded. He was in any event too interested in what was about to happen.

  The gondola had only a short distance to travel, obliquely across the canal, before bringing up at another short flight of steps rising out of the water. At the head of these was a barred door, which now swung open. Hawkwood found himself in another of the interminable dark corridors which composed this watery rabbit-warren.

  Now he was led up stairs again, then passed through a hall in which there were windows and a trace of afternoon sunlight, to reach a small room whose walls were entirely lined with bookcases, and whose floorspace almost entirely occupied by a huge desk, littered with papers.

  Behind the desk sat Alvise Mocenigo.

  “You will excuse this charade, signore,” the Doge said, “but it is necessary. Sit down.”

  There were two other chairs in the room. Hawkwood’s clothes remained clammily damp, so he cautiously lowered himself on to one of these, while Viniero took the other.

  “You were condemned to death by a majority of only two,” Mocenigo advised him. “That is a narrow vote, although a decisive one. If I am to overturn a majority decision of the Council of Ten, I must be able to give irrefutable reasons. However, I happen to know that the hostile vote was less against you than in favour of our terminating the alliance we have made with the Papacy and Spain, so as to cut our losses and make peace with the Porte again.

  “This is not mere pusillanimity. It is difficult to change the attitudes which men have assumed over generations. For many years we have been the allies of the Ottomans, and there are those amongst us who believe that it is our true fate to remain within the Ottoman orbit, that we should have ceded Cyprus when Selim demanded it, and that we should now seek peace as rapidly as possible.

  “I am not one of those people, Hawk Pasha. These conciliators also hate and fear the Papacy. This is common to most Venetians, I fear, and is heartily reciprocated by the average Roman. The Christian kingdoms of the West mistrust us because we are a republic and our form of government is abhorrent to them. That we are a rich and successful republic makes us even more repugnant.

  “I am well aware of these things, but it is now a matter of determining which of these world powers today poses the greater threat to Venice: the Papacy or the Porte. In my mind it is the Porte, and, in Pius V, I have discovered a pope who thinks as I do.”

  He paused to take a sip of wine from the goblet on his desk. There was a decanter nearby, and Viniero filled another glass and offered it to Hawkwood. Anthony accepted it, but did no more than brush the rim with his lips.

  “Now I believe,” the Doge continued, “as do others, of whom Admiral Viniero here is one, that the only way we may ever strike decisively at the Ottoman power is by sea. I sense that you also realise this.”

  Hawkwood nodded instinctively.

  “The West has sent countless armies against the Porte,” the Doge continued, “and every one has been defeated. Over the past thirty years the Ottomans have had virtually unchallenged control of the sea, but that is due to our own incompetence and to our lack of coordination. And in that time they — and you — have created the greatest navy in the history of our world, far beyond the potential of any single Western state. Yet the beast has been defeated at sea in the past, has he not?”

  “Yes,” Anthony concurred.

  “Thus he can surely be defeated again, so long as we put against him sufficient ships and men, and sufficiently able commanders. We have such an armament gathering now, at Messina. But it is gathering to relieve Famagusta. Once knowledge of the fall of Famagusta reaches it, I am afraid this alliance will collapse, and each admiral will lead his own squadron home. This would be a disaster of the first magnitude, and I doubt whether such a force could ever again be brought together. I am determined this will not happen, whatever the wishes of some of my colleagues. And I believe you may be of great value to our cause, signore, if you would be willing to go to Messina, and inspire the fleet commanders with some determination, so that they may overcome their mutual suspicions and put to sea before they hear of Famagusta.”

  “I am willing,” Anthony said without hesitation.

  “And I will be at your elbow,” Viniero added. Mocenigo nodded. “There is another reason why I wish to employ you, Hawk. I have said that we need not only ships, but admirals fully capable of defeating the Turks — and we do not have them.”

  Anthony glanced at Viniero in surprise.

  Mocenigo smiled. “Our Admiral here knows the truth of what I say. Excellence in sea warfare is not gained by genius alone, however great that may be. It is the result of genius allied to experience, and experience not only of the enemy but of the seas and the winds. These things our commanders somewhat lack, since not one of them has ever fought a pitched battle against the Turks. And the designated Commander-in-Chief…you have heard of him?”

  “Don Juan of Austria.”

  “A mere boy, appointed because Philip of Spain would have it so.” Mocenigo’s mouth twisted. “The Spanish contingent is by far the largest in our fleet.”

  “The young man’s reputation is highly regarded in Istanbul, Your Excellency.”

  “That may be — but as a soldier. He has won a few battles in his time, but he has never fought at sea.” Mocenigo pointed. “He cannot of course be supplanted as Commander-in-Chief. You may, indeed, have some difficulty in persuading him to accept you at all. But if you can do that, and become his adviser, our cause will be greatly advanced.”

  “I will undertake this,” Anthony said.

  Mocenigo stared at him. “It is a mission of considerable danger, Hawk. There is at least a chance that the Spaniards may hang you on sight.”

  “I understand the risk.”

  “But you will have my recommendation, and that of Viniero here. And I will send you first of all to Rome. Persuade Pope Pius of your worth, and your battle is hal
f won.’

  Anthony nodded.

  “I should remind you that your mission is of considerable danger not only to yourself, but also to me, in that I will surely be pilloried for trusting a renegade — and can only justify myself through your success. It will be of even greater danger to your sons, should you fail — or, even more, should you have in mind any treachery. I would have you understand this, Monsignore Hawkwood. Your wife is a niece of mine, and her kinsmen were scandalised when we learned she was being forced into marriage with such a man as you.

  “Monsignore Hawkwood, your family will remain here in Venice until you return in triumph. Should you help us defeat the Turks, you may ask of me what you will, and if it is in my power, you will have it.

  “Should you not return here, because you died in battle, victorious or not, I will honour your wife and mother, and give protection to your sons.

  “But should you be too easily defeated, or should you play the traitor and deliver our fleet to the Ottomans, I swear that, niece or no, you will hear the screams of your wife in hell as she is sent to join you — followed by your sons. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Hawkwood replied grimly.

  “It is well that you do. Now prepare yourself for your journey. Haste is all important.”

  Hawkwood was given a warm bath, and food and wine, in Viniero’s own palazzo, and then clothes were produced for him to wear. They did not fit very well, but they at least transformed him from a Turkish pasha into a Venetian gentleman, and to make certain he was not easily recognised, Viniero’s barber shaved off his beard.

  Here was an odd experience; like any Ottoman, Anthony had worn hair on his chin since puberty. When the barber was done, he could hardly recognise himself.

  “It has halved your age,” Viniero observed, “whatever that may be.”

  “I am thirty-four years of age,” Hawkwood told him.

  “And without the beard you look ten years younger. I wonder what your wife will make of you.”

  *

  Anthony wondered the same thing as he was taken from the Admiral’s palazzo to that of the Cornaro family. It was late evening by now, and although the setting sun still drew brilliant reflections from the campanile of St Mark’s, the air had cooled; the streets and squares and bridges of Venice were filled with promenading citizens, all seemingly in the best of humour. The Doge had not yet released the news of the massacre at Famagusta, and all they knew was that a famous Turkish admiral had been captured, and was no doubt being tortured to surrender his secrets.

  So no one paid much attention to the tall, clean-shaven man who hurried past them accompanied by four retainers, his close-cropped hair concealed beneath a black velvet hat, his dark blue jerkin and matching trunk hose indicating that he was in every way an Italian, a man of fashion too.

  But he breathed a sigh of anticipation when a postern gate was opened to allow him into a little garden, its latticework supporting a mass of vines which gave it a very real privacy.

  His guards remained on the street, and he was left alone, gazing at the single door let into the side wall of the palazzo, which building rose several stories above his head.

  After a few minutes the door opened, and his wife Barbara stepped through.

  She also had been transformed — from a Turkish lady to a Venetian — and wore a dark red velvet gown with huge puffed shoulders; both her partlet and her underskirt were heavily embroidered velvet, and she had gauze ruffs at her neck and wrists, while her hair had been carefully dressed and pulled back from her face to leave it exposed. Beautiful as she had always been, he had never seen her looking so splendid.

  While she stopped in consternation.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “Is a wisp of beard that confounding, signora?” he asked.

  Barbara frowned at him. “Anthony? My lord?”

  He held out his hands, and a moment later she was in his arms.

  “Oh, Anthony, I feel like an adulteress.”

  “I only wish we had the time to make you one, my sweet,” he told her, “but I am allowed no more than a few minutes.” He held her away from him. “Your great-uncle is sending me to Messina.”

  “Then you are going to war? Leaving us here?”

  “Where you will be safe. I have the Doge’s word. And for the future of our sons, should I not return.”

  She gripped him almost fiercely. “But you will return, Anthony. Swear that to me.”

  He kissed her. “I will return.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, why, we shall seek nothing else but happiness.”

  He would not tell her of the penalties of failure, because there could be no failure. Should he not be able to gain the day, then he must die in the battle, as Mocenigo had recommended.

  But Hawkwood had never lacked confidence in himself.

  *

  She summoned his mother Felicity and the three boys, and he said farewell to them, too.

  “I wish I could come with you, Father,” John pleaded. “Could I not be your page?”

  “Your business is to care for your mother,” Anthony told him. “Until my return at the least.”

  Felicity hugged him against her. “Will this really be the end?”

  “For me, Mother,” he promised her, and rejoined his guards.

  *

  Together with Kalil — delighted to be accompanying his master — Anthony rejoined Viniero and the Admiral’s attendants and they left Venice by ferry before midnight; the Doge wanted Anthony well away from the city before the time ordained for his execution. Mocenigo was here steering as tortuous a political course as any Hawkwood had ever undertaken, and with equal danger to both — but his guiding aims were the destruction of Ottoman power and the recovery of the Republic, and he would use those twin ambitions to bludgeon down any opposition. Yet he could never wholly guarantee that Anthony would not be assassinated somewhere, somehow by an agent of the peace party.

  Horses waited for them on the mainland, and they commenced their journey immediately. Yet Hawkwood was exhausted and it was necessary to sleep, so, once Viniero considered they were safely distant from the city, he called a halt and the party bivouacked under the warm August skies.

  Next day they continued on their way, already into Papal territory. Anthony recalled his mother telling him of how his great-uncle William had fled along this same path, eighty years ago. But he suffered no inconvenience on this journey, for he travelled under the flag of the Papacy’s new ally, Venice, and in the company of the Admiral.

  Three weeks after leaving Venice, they arrived in Rome.

  *

  Viniero had warned Anthony of what to expect. In Istanbul the vagaries of the Protestant revolt against Rome had been little understood or heeded: Christendom was Christendom — another world. In the West, however, the religious upheaval, which had now been going on for more than a generation, was regarded as a far greater crisis than any incursions of Ottoman power.

  Earlier popes confronted with this new ideology had been uncertain how to cope with it. But Pius V — once a shepherd boy named Antonio Ghislieri — had never any doubts.

  In the five years since his elevation to the Papacy, he had launched the most vigorous attack ever known on what he considered moral laxity. He had banned all alcohol from the Vatican, confined the Roman prostitutes to a small section of the city marked off from the rest by red-painted lanterns, forbidden all recreation on Sunday, banned profanity, ordered all clerics to spend a certain proportion of their time in their own dioceses instead of gathering in Rome, and made the daily recital of the Catechism a matter of law. Any backsliders were handed over to the Inquisition.

  Having thus cleaned up his own back yard, Pius had turned his attention to the international scene. He had begun by expelling the Jews from his Papal domains, except where they were essential for commercial purposes — and even there they were permitted only the status of slaves. He had encouraged Philip II of Spain to
wage an unremittingly brutal war upon his Dutch Protestant subjects; and he had excommunicated Queen Elizabeth of England.

  “As to what good will come of all these things, no man can say,” Viniero told Hawkwood. “It is certain that he has made Europe a most uncomfortable continent in which to live. But he has one redeeming feature: he is determined to bring down the Turk. As this is your aim and mine, I would beg you to be careful when you meet him.”

  *

  The Doge’s letters were delivered to the Vatican, and within an hour Hawkwood and Viniero were summoned into the Papal presence.

  Anthony found himself facing a little man with a fiercely hooked nose and pointed beard, who slumped rather than sat in his chair, as if he were not in the best of health. He was sixty-seven, but there was still fire in his eyes as he stared at the huge figure in front of him.

  “Monsignore Mocenigo says you are a messenger with news of vital importance,” he said. “Tell me it.”

  “First, my name, Your Holiness,” Anthony said. “I am Hawkwood, known as Hawk Pasha. I used to serve the Turks.”

  The Pope sat up slowly.

  As Anthony told him of Famagusta and its aftermath, the Pope stared at him. When he had finished speaking, there was silence for a while, then Pius said, “If you have served the infidel against us, can you give me one reason why I should not hand you over instantly to the Inquisition?”

  “Monsignore Mocenigo felt the same way at first, until he reflected upon what I had to offer, Your Holiness.”

  Once again the Pope listened. At the end, he said, “Truly, Our Father moves in mysterious ways. I have sworn to bring down the anti-Christ before I die…and are you the weapon I must use? Yet Mocenigo is right. I do not know how long the combined fleet can remain in being once news of Famagusta is received. And I am only too well aware of Don Juan’s lack of experience. But you are of English descent, and they are a nation of vipers. What religion do you profess, monsignore?”

  Anthony had prepared himself for this question. “I am of the True Faith, Your Holiness.”