by Tim Willocks
“Amparo, Mattias plans to leave the island—tonight.” It didn’t seem likely to her that there would be a tonight, but now was the time to broach the matter of escape.
Amparo looked at her. “How?”
“He has a boat hidden up the coast and will guide us through the Turkish lines. Are you happy to come with us, back to Italy and home?”
“With Tannhauser? And with you? But of course.” She started to smile, then stopped in a frown. “What will become of Buraq?”
“You must ask Mattias.”
“Buraq can’t come with us?”
Carla didn’t have the heart to shake her head. “You must ask Mattias.”
Amparo turned and hurried toward the stables. Carla almost called after her, then reasoned that it was safer to leave her at the stables than to drag her about the battlefield. At least she’d know where the girl was. Carla returned to the infirmary to prepare La Valette’s brigade of the infirm and lame.
Despite their willingness, most of the casualties would never reach the front, short of being portered there on wattles and laid along the breach flat on their backs. Several had already died from the effort they’d made in standing, as fragile membranes ruptured inside and dropped them on the spot. Others were defeated by lungs so ravaged by smoke that they couldn’t rise. Those with severe burns, and they were many, couldn’t move at all. Nevertheless, three hundred or so volunteers were deemed fit enough to make their march plausible. They helped one another into the surcoats and swapped helms to find their right size. They bound sashes and belts around newly sutured wounds. They improvised crutches out of pike shafts and shovels and timbers from demolished homes. They hung on to one another and to the monks and surgeons who accompanied them. They did these things without ado, with the practical stolidity of peasants and common soldiers. In their bloodstained and battered casques and their crimson surcoats splashed with the white Latin cross, they seemed like a ramshackle army of lost crusaders resurrected from the tombs of Outremer. That or a cruel allegory of Folly Unbound. A young Maltese rendered sightless by burns grabbed Carla’s arm. He recoiled and begged forgiveness as he realized she was a woman. She was reminded of her first charge in the infirmary, Angelu, the man with no face and no hands. She took the youth’s arm in hers.
The battalion of the maimed set out from the piazza and Father Lazaro led them forth toward the roar of the guns. He began to chant a Psalm of David in plainsong, with a high clear wavering voice that pierced her heart. Another monk joined in, accompanying Lazaro’s cantus an octave below, then others joined in counterpoint at the fourth tone and the fifth, and a sound as if of cherubim lifted their spirits and carried them forward to the final encounter.
Their city crumbled around them as they marched. Here and there a wall collapsed as a ball from a Turkish culverin hurtled home. The debris entombed a handful of the men stumbling by, but no one dithered. Carla saw groups of old women sink to their knees and they wept and lamented and pressed crosses and beads and icons of the saints to their cracked and wrinkled lips as they passed by. Occasionally one of the valiant would stumble and fall as his wounds took their toll, and sometimes he would get up again and sometimes not, but the monks of the infirmary—now, like their brethren, monks of war—did not pause in their march or in their singing, nor did their legion, for they marched and sang to save the Holy Religion.
They reached an apron of broken ground at the limit of what passed muster for the city and a screaming pandemonium there unfolded before her eyes.
Turbid drifts of powder smoke roiled the contested brim—from the siege tower’s roof, from artillery mounted on the crownworks, from whirling incendiary hoops and the volleys of the musketeers. Yellow sheets of wildfire leapt skyward and danced above the ditch beyond the massive breaches in the wall. Against this incandescence she saw the twisted silhouettes of the fighting knights, warped and quaking in the heat like the nightmares of the crazed as they harvested heads and limbs from the gaudy throng. Among the soldiers lurked the shapes of the Maltese women, scattering sweat from the long hair dangling beneath their helms and brandishing short swords and pikes, and crawling along the line dragging tubs of gruel, and squatting to slay the Moslem wounded with their knives, like viragoes reincarnate from some bleak and ancient saga of retribution.
Somewhere within this hallucination fought Mattias too. There, on the post of Castile, where sprays of blood arced hither and sizzled on plated armor like frying fat. Where wounded mauled wounded to a finish with bare hands and teeth, squirming one atop the other like mutant creatures mating in swill. Where men flapped wings of flame in a fiery epilepsis. Where the air clamored with gun blasts and clashing steel and with screams of dying and screams of rage and with curses and entreaties and mad laughter. Where above the deafening lunacy of Holy War, the magisterial calm of Lazaro’s choir swooped and soared. Where—Carla prayed—Mattias might yet live.
Havoc unconstrained was master of the field and Carla could make no sense of it, nor see with whom the battle’s advantage lay. She followed with the rest as Lazaro conducted the ragtags up the wall stair. They filed along the ramparts to left and right, filling the alure to the post of France and the posts of Auvergne and Italy. Some retrieved arquebuses, powder, and ball. Those with the means declined the stair and muddled into the fray where she saw them slain. The remainder breasted the crenels with their warcoats and let the implacable sun wink from their casques. They drew a hail of Turkish musket fire, and though many of them fell those still standing didn’t flinch. If they could take a bullet meant for a man in the line, they would die justified.
Carla left the blind youth in his place and descended the stair. If she returned to the infirmary, or went to find Amparo, no one would have stopped her. Yet the tumult called and she had to take part. She didn’t want to kill; yet, perhaps for the first time, she had some inkling of the bewitchment cast by war. She saw a bucket by a butt of water and ran toward it.
The mournful notes of the Moslem trumpets quavered through the smoke-dimmed gloaming and died. The vermilion decline of the sun cast doleful and elongate shadows on the Grande Terre Plein. The shadows were thrown by the dregs of the Turkish retreat as they trudged through the black and flyblown blood dust like hobbled refugees from some conclave of the deranged. They dared not turn to look hinder. Left unclaimed behind them were vast moaning piles of abandoned and slain, which shifted and heaved like fantastic multilimbed beasts brought down by disease. Women clogged with gore from hair to skirts rooted through the charnel in the dying light, whispering vengeful maledictions and slitting throats. On the fractured ramparts above them no celebrants were found, but only human scarecrows yet too stunned to realize they were alive.
A chaplain rang the Angelus bell. It echoed across the desecration like the tocsin that will summon forth the guilty on the Last Day of Time. The haggard remnants of the garrison sank to their knees in the puddled gore. Scuds of acrid fog from the pools of wildfire drifted about them. They removed their helms and grounded them and made the sign of the cross. And in that hushed and haunted penumbra of rank enormity their hoarsened voices took up the chant and refrain.
“Angelus Domini, nuntiavit Mariae.”
“Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.”
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.”
“Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”
“Be it done unto me according to Thy word.”
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .”
Favoring his bad knee, Tannhauser leaned on his sword and genuflected beside Bors, more from exhaustion than piety, though he guessed he wasn’t quite alone in that. Bors prayed with closed eyes and Tannhauser held his peace as the Angelus proceeded.
“And the Word was made flesh.”
“And dwelt among us.”
“Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God.”
“That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.”
The prayer brought him comfort and for a moment he was glad to belong to something larger than himself. Yet he reminded himself that there was no virtue in belonging to a row of corpses, or to a community of the insane. His sojourn with the Religion was over. Tonight the Turks would sit by their watch fires and ponder without inquiry the inscrutability of Allah’s will. They’d see to their hurting compatriots as best they could. They’d eat and shun the darkness, as all men sorely dismayed are prone to do. And in that darkness would Tannhauser make his escape. The thought gave some sinew to his aching limbs. The Angelus concluded.
“. . . Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we, to whom the incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the message of an angel, may by His passion and cross be brought to the glory of His resurrection, through the same Christ our Lord.”
“Amen.”
Bors opened his eyes and looked at him with a glazed bemusement, as if the rules of the Universe had changed in order to permit his continuing existence. He looked like he’d bathed in the runoff from a butcher’s yard, but sported no mortal injuries. Tannhauser nodded.
Bors put a hand on Tannhauser’s shoulder and levered his own armored bulk to his feet. Then he took Tannhauser’s hand and hoisted him upright. He looked up and down along the dire and smoking battlefront. A dazed air attended the survivors as they rose from their knees, as if with no more killing to be done they were denuded of purpose. Some looked about for officers, in search of instruction. Some stared mute into the wasteland as if waiting for night to rob them of what they could see. Others stayed on their knees and wept, though whether from shame or relief, Tannhauser could not say.
“By God,” said Bors. “By God. If there are more than four hundred men left standing I’ll devote myself to Islam, circumcision and all. Heaven help us if they come again tomorrow.”
Tannhauser looked over at the hills to the south, where the banner of the Prophet still waved above his broken legions. In the purpling sky overhead a crescent moon shone, as if the Cosmos sought to mock the symbol of Osman. He turned away and shook his head.
“I don’t think they will,” he said. “Sooner or later, yes, but not tomorrow.”
“Why not? Look at them. They’d surely take the town by breakfast.”
“They interpret blows of Fate such as this one in a singular fashion. It’s not just a defeat. It’s a message from Allah. They won’t throw it back in His face.” He peeled his gauntlets and strolled toward a water butt and Bors followed. “Besides, by tomorrow we’ll be long gone, with no more daunting a fear than of getting seasick.”
He shouldered his way through the crowd that had gathered at the butt and filled his helmet and emptied it over his head. His armor steamed. He’d shortly jettison the cursed plate for good and the thought cheered him. He made a note to find the time for a dip in his tub. He filled the helmet again and emptied several pints down his throat. It was warm enough to brew tea but it was wet. He handed the remnant to Bors, who drank too.
“You’re still for the road?” asked Tannhauser.
Bors returned the helmet and wiped his lips. “I never thought to say this, but I’ve had my fill. I’m with you in earnest.”
“Good. Say no farewells. We’ll collect our gear and our women and be gone. The moon will be down by midnight and the Bull’s horns point the way. But first some food for I’m famished.”
“There’s a tub of slop yonder,” said Bors.
“Thank you, I will eat at the auberge.”
“If Nicodemus is alive and has claim to all his fingers.”
“If not,” said Tannhauser, “you can cook.”
He glanced again at the slop tub and saw Carla. She was kneeling with her face in her hands, but it could be no other. She seemed unhurt. He hoped so. He hurried over and sank to his haunches beside her.
“Carla?”
She dropped her hands and looked up. Her face was smeared with grime. Her eyes were clear. Her hands were raw from the ropes. Tannhauser nodded at the tub.
“So this is a family occupation,” he said.
She glanced at the tub with bewilderment and his quip went unappreciated. Tears welled in her eyes. She said, “You’re alive.”
“I’ve too many obligations to die just yet.”
The tears spilled forth and she threw her arms around his neck. Pain lanced through his knee and he steadied himself on the tub to avoid collapse. He gritted his teeth and rose to his feet with her weight around his shoulder. He rubbed her back to comfort her. Her living flesh was such a rapture to his touch that he almost shed a tear himself.
“There now,” he said, somewhat beflummoxed. “We’re all of us amazed by this day.”
She heaved out a few more sobs and he waited. He gestured with his head to Bors, who retreated to a discreet distance. Carla regained her composure and wiped the tears across the dirt on her cheeks. Tannhauser pulled the red silk scarf from the cheek flaps of his morion. He squeezed out the sweat and wiped her face. She raised no protest.
“I see you ignored my advice,” he said. “As I’ve come to expect. Did you accompany the wounded to the ramparts?”
She nodded. “Most of them are dead.”
“Then we’re in their debt and all the more reason not to mope. Where’s Amparo?”
“The last I saw her she was going to the stables, to see to Buraq.”
“Must I use shackles to keep you together?”
She managed a pale smile.
“I’ll track her down,” he said. “Meanwhile, Bors will return you to the auberge. We’ve a stiff walk ahead and you must recruit your strength.”
“We still leave tonight?”
On whim he said, “Wear your red dress for the journey.”
She blinked and looked at him as if he’d asked her to go naked, which wasn’t far from the case. To ameliorate the eccentricity of his request, he added, “And a cloak against the chill of night, and some stout shoes, if you have them.” He took her hand and led her toward the town. “I may not be worthy of the promises of Christ, but my promise to you and your son I’ve a mind to keep.”
Sunday, September 2, 1565
The Kalkara Gate—The Guva
The eastern section of the wall overlooking Kalkara Bay was the least vulnerable of the whole enceinte and the garrison was so depleted by the day that their route to freedom lay unguarded. The blockhouse was empty and boasted no sentinel. By dint of accepting sentry duty on the bastion of England above, and then abandoning it, they ensured themselves a clear run at the hills. Midnight had passed—only a little later than Tannhauser had planned—and two hours’ sleep had fortified the women and had given him the chance to advise La Valette of his expectations of the foe and thus diminish the chance of being summoned again before morning. Bors slipped into the chamber housing the winch and hoisted the iron portcullis aloft.
The stickiest aspect of their preparations had been persuading Amparo to abandon Buraq. Tannhauser had assured her that no living beast was safer. His manifest splendor and Mongol blood would ensure that no one of right mind would harm him, least of all the Turks, who would prize him far above any human being, Christian or Moslem. With a few last tearful hysterics he’d pried Amparo loose and carried her back to the auberge. She evidenced little interest in his own sorely mauled condition, but he’d learned by now that the tenderness of women was a patchy, if not entirely random, phenomenon.
They now passed into the gatehouse beneath the portcullis and Bors winched it down behind them, Tannhauser propping it aloft with his rifle until Bors ducked underneath. When he pulled the rifle away, there was a
rumble of cogs and counterweights and the spiked feet of the grill crashed into the stones. It seemed loud to them, but the sound wouldn’t carry far. Closing the portcullis relieved them of securing the wicket once they were outside. They looked at one another: there was no going back.
“Jacta alea est,” whispered Bors.
This uncharacteristic flourish of classical learning provoked an anxious glance from Carla. She looked gaunt in the torchlight, but was making a firm fist of controlling her fear. Tannhauser gave her a nod of reassurance. Amparo, reconciled to Buraq’s fate, might have been on a Sunday promenade. He raised the torch, which they’d need to solve the riddle of the wicket, and flaring iotas of naphtha and pitch drifted down toward the flags. The broad passageway glimmered toward the bloody angle, where intruders could be pinned beneath the murder hole in the roof. Tannhauser led them on.
Despite all the hazard and slaughter that had marked his career, and not least the bloody japes of the long day ended, Tannhauser couldn’t recall when his heart had beaten so like a drum. He was surprised the others didn’t hear it. He could think of no sound reason for this portent and so it vexed him all the more. He checked on Bors to see if his sixth sense was tickled, but he appeared unperturbed. As they passed beneath the murder hole he couldn’t help sniffing for wildfire or oil, matchcords or men, but the passage above seemed deserted and the drumbeat eased. Apart from two goatskins of water and the satchels on Bors’s back, which were crammed with opium and enough precious stones to ransom an emperor’s son, they traveled light. Carla, as a concession to his request, carried her red dress in her poke, or so she assured him. Tannhauser, if no one else, had considered lugging the viola da gamba, but had reluctantly left it behind. They reached the outer sally port. The Kalkara Gate stood before them.