Unlike the previous assault, this attack was well coordinated. The Muslims were taking advantage of their vast numerical superiority to assail the flotilla on all sides, and almost immediately, the Christians were repelling multiple boarding parties. Soon, the barge joined the fray, its pilot attempting, with alarming success, to slip between the Imperial transport and the Genoese galley. His ship's low waterline allowed him to wedge his craft between the bulkheads, where it came to a screeching halt.
Protected in the tower, the Muslim archers backed up the Janissaries as they scaled the sides of the transport and the galley. Not wanting to expose themselves to arrow fire, the defenders were reluctant to engage the attackers.
As Marcus watched the scene unfold, a burning arrow grazed outside of his bicep. He cursed, looked down at the wound, then out at the bodies that now littered the ship's bow. Knowing the status quo would not suffice, Marcus glanced at the soldiers cowering around him and unbuckled his chest plate, dropping it to the deck. As the captain eyed him suspiciously, Marcus winked and sprinted forward, unsheathing his sword. He dove headfirst, rolled up onto his knees, and stopped near the massive rope that held the anchor. Using both hands, he lifted his sword and brought it down onto the heavy rope. He repeatedly hacked at the giant cord, each strike cutting through several of the stubborn strands. His fifth or sixth stroke severed the rope entirely and buried his sword's blade into the wooden deck.
The frazzled end zipped past the chock as the anchor picked up speed and crashed through the ship below. Marcus ran to the railing and watched a pillar of seawater erupt from the gaping hole, overwhelming the shattered deck. A dozen soldiers leaped from the tower, its wooden beams creaking and groaning as it collapsed. Marcus stepped back from the railing, for a moment fearing that the wreckage might doom the Imperial as well. He exhaled in relief as the structure crumbled in upon itself. An enormous cheer erupted from the defenders as the Muslim craft, groaning in protest, slipped beneath the waves, leaving behind a mass of broken timber and stunned survivors.
Marcus stepped back toward the captain, smiling as he pulled his sword from the deck. The captain shook his head as the Roman approached.
"I wouldn't believe it if the Pope himself had told me—" He slapped Marcus on his wounded shoulder. "Nice work!"
Marcus winced, then glanced toward the rippling canvas and the darkening sky. "Looks like we're finally going to get some breeze."
"Better late than never."
With their behemoth struck down, the demoralized Turks lost their taste for battle and fell back to their vessels. Some Muslim ships were already retreating when the sails buckled and heaved. Soon, the Genoese vessels and the Imperial transport were breaking free of the enemy fleet.
Marcus looked down at his blood-splattered hands and clothes. "I'm going to wash up."
"Thank you, my friend. Without your sword and quick wits, I fear we'd be enjoying the company of that devilish heathen by now."
"You're welcome." A smirk creased Marcus' lips, "I doubt any enjoyment would've been had."
Marcus reached for his breastplate, slipped it on, and moved to the railing just as two sailors prepared to separate the coupled vessels. Grabbing a rope that hung to the galley below, Marcus slid down the line, releasing it as he reached the bottom. Marcus picked up a bucket of water near the railing and made his way to his chamber, acknowledging the nods and smiles as he went. He set the pail on the night table, unclasped his armor, and set it aside to clean later. Marcus removed his soiled shirt and inspected his sliced bicep. He scrubbed the wound and wrapped a single strip of black cloth around it. Satisfied, Marcus rinsed the blood from his hands and face, repeating a process he had done far too many times.
The sun was just a memory by the time they docked at one of the many wooden piers located beneath the city's watchful eye. Marcus waited for the crew to disembark before he exited down the gangplank. He would come back later for his chest. But as he left the dock, a figure called from the shadows.
"Nice fighting, for a Roman." A familiar female voice called to him.
Marcus stopped and peered at the stranger. They were shorter and wore a dark cloak to blend in with the night.
"Thanks, I get lucky sometimes."
"I doubt you leave much to luck." As Marcus moved closer, the stranger shifted to stay in the shadows. "Why are you here?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Who?"
"You."
"How did you know?" Isabella stepped from the shadows and lowered her hood. Her face was covered with dirt, and her hair cut short, trying to mask her femininity. It did not work.
"When you moved, you shifted your weight," he grinned, "exactly how I taught you."
She moved forward and hugged him, whispering into his ear, "It's good to see you."
Marcus pulled her body to his, her head resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and smelled the jasmine in her hair. His hands lingered on her back, not wanting to let her go. As they gently swayed in the darkness, the splinter of guilt remained deep in his soul. It was matched by his irritation. He had seen or done unspeakable things and had always buried his feelings of guilt or shame. He knew it wasn't healthy, but it was the only way for him to stay sane. It frustrated him that he could not do the same with Isabella. Why couldn't he compartmentalize his feelings for her?
He let go, leaned back, and looked into her eyes. "I missed you."
She winked back at him. "Enough to volunteer for a suicide mission?"
"You're here."
"Where else would I be?"
Marcus grinned. She was as strong and confident as ever. "How bad is it?"
"Let's get something to eat, and I'll fill you in." Without waiting, she headed toward the city walls.
They soon found themselves standing outside a shabby-looking tavern, inconspicuous in its plainness. Languages may differ, but men gather in local pubs to consume prodigious amounts of alcohol in any corner of the world. Some go to enjoy the company of others; some to escape the company at home. Often it was both.
Marcus held open the door as Isabella stepped into the dark interior. As expected, the pub was devoid of its regular patrons, most of whom were manning the city walls. A few older men huddled near the empty fireplace were engaged in a quiet conversation and paid them no heed as they crossed the dim room and sat down at a corner table. A seasoned barmaid in a plain white and tan dress approached them as they settled in.
"Back again?"
"Of course, best meat pie in the city," Isabella replied.
"Doesn't say much. What can I get you?"
"We'll have two pints of ale and two of those pies."
"Very well." She headed back to the bar.
"Meat?" Marcus raised his eyebrows.
"Don't worry, it's not rat meat. The owner is Genoese." She grinned and nodded toward the man behind the bar. "They have a knack for finding things that can't be found. Here, it helps to have a brother in Pera, a city across the bay. There's been a healthy black-market business going on between the two ever since the Muslims pitched their tents outside the city walls."
"Men will always profit from a conflict."
"War and greed go hand in hand."
"What about the siege…how bad is it?"
"The city itself has less than five thousand men capable of manning the walls. Some of them have never seen a weapon, let alone know how to carry one. A couple of thousand foreign mercenaries, mostly Genoese and Venetian. They'd rather sleep with a viper in their pants than fight together, but the emperor has kept them from killing each other."
Marcus leaned back as the server placed two cups of ale between them. "And Mahomet?"
"Damn that heathen!" The waitress hissed, and without waiting for a response, headed back to the kitchen.
"Well, I guess we know how she feels." Marcus took a sip of ale.
"Yep, common response. Mahomet has somewhere between eighty and a hundred thousand men, with more arriving each day. Lots of s
iege weapons."
"How are you set for supplies? How long can you hold out?"
"I'm sure the supplies you brought will help. Water is of no concern—the wells in the city are deep and plentiful." Isabella shook her head. "No—we shall fall by the sword, or the sultan will give in to the influence of his council and retreat. Either thing could happen tomorrow or a month from now."
"Would he abandon the siege?"
"Other sultans have left when given enough gold, but this one seems different."
Marcus thought back to the scene on the beach. He took a long pull from his cup. "He's here."
Isabella raised her cup to drink but stopped, and set it down, all the while staring right at him. "Thomas?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I've heard things…they are less than rumors. Rumors of rumors. Whispers."
They sat in silence as the waitress returned and set down two pies.
"I need to talk to him." He pushed the pie aside and leaned forward. "The man in Pera…can we use him to send a message?"
As Isabella stared at her glass, Marcus could hear the crackle of the fireplace. He waited patiently.
"Yes…on one condition."
"You want to go with me."
"Yes."
Not surprised, Marcus nodded. They ate in silence, and when done, Marcus wrote a brief note, signing it Marcus. He folded the letter and sealed it with a single glob of wax, which he poured from a nearby candle.
"Let me drop it off with the owner, and I'll get you a room." Isabella stood. "Unless…?"
He forced a smile.
"I know." Without another word, she turned and headed to the bar.
On the morning of the third day in the city, they received a terse reply to the note. It gave instructions for them to return to Pera with the guide at midnight for the meeting. There was no signature.
Isabella made all the arrangements. As the city settled into another uneasy slumber, Marcus donned the clothes of a Genoese merchant and, carrying only his sword and a purse full of coins, walked with Isabella to the dock where they boarded a tiny skiff with their guide. The moon's light reflected off the calm water and guided their craft as they crossed the peaceful bay. The low walls of Pera soon became visible, several torches flickering in the soft breeze.
"Halt!" A deep voice pierced the darkness as they beached the vessel.
Marcus looked at Isabella, then the guide.
"It's just my cousin." the guide said. "I'll need to show him our appreciation for letting us land here tonight."
"Is everyone in this town related?"
Marcus understood the type of appreciation the boatman meant, reached into his pouch, and pulled out several gold coins. He handed them to the young man, who hopped onto the beach and vanished into the tall grass beyond.
He reappeared moments later, waving them forward, before disappearing again. Marcus stepped from the craft, feeling his boots sink into the wet sand. Isabella was close behind. They followed a narrow path that led up the embankment, and found the guide standing beside a Genoese guard, engaged in a quiet conversation that ended upon their arrival. The soldier nodded to his guide and turned back toward Pera.
"Your meeting will take place there." The guide pointed to a copse of trees in the near distance.
They followed a well-used trail, traversing the open field, and stepped into a thick growth of ancient cypress. Marcus could see a lazy stream snaking through the shadowy pasture, spilling softly into the harbor beyond. Their guide disappeared back down the trail, reminding them he would wait at the boat. As they moved further into the woods, they saw a dark figure staring at the distant city, its reflection shimmering on the bay.
"I thought you would be alone." Thomas turned toward them.
"I needed to be here." Isabella took a step towards him. "I deserve an explanation."
"Perhaps." Thomas's eyes dropped to her hand, which rested on a sword. "I trust your intentions are peaceful?"
Nodding, she slid her hand from the hilt.
"Very well then." Thomas stepped forward, arms open. "It's good to see you."
She returned his hug without speaking, her jaw clenched.
Thomas pulled away, then looked to Marcus. "What has it been, 700 years?"
"Longer.” Marcus accepted his embrace, then stepped back and studied his old friend.
Thomas had lost weight, and his hair now hung down past his shoulders. A thin goatee clung to his once clean-shaven chin. But the fundamental change was in his eyes; those eyes once shimmered with hope, with a quiet humility that could disarm a stranger with a single glance. Now they were cold and hard. To look into them was like looking into an endless pit. Marcus stood before his old friend and realized this was not the man he knew, but an adversary, one who stood for everything they had ever fought against.
Thomas sensed the uneasiness. "What are you doing here?"
"Helping to defend the church…something we used to do together."
Thomas nodded but did not respond. There was no emotion to his expression, but Marcus could sense a darkness beneath the facade.
Marcus was reluctant to ask but did anyway, "What happened the day you left?"
Thomas flinched but did not respond. Marcus pressed on.
"I tried to follow you the next morning but lost your trail near the coast. I heard nothing of you for at least two hundred years, and even then, only whispers."
"I don't speak about my past—" He shifted his gaze to Isabella. "But as you said, you deserve an explanation." There was a lengthy silence, and when he continued, it was like a different man was speaking. "I remember little, just hearing the news and riding back to the city in search of the archbishop. I found him at the cathedral, and that's where my memory fades. I know there was blood—so much blood." He looked at his hands as if they still carried the stain. "I remember talking to you, then riding to the coast. I boarded a merchant ship to Africa, and it took three days to cross the sea. When I walked off that ship, my mind was clear but broken. I wandered across that continent for years and then to parts of this world you could never imagine. No matter how hard I tried, how far I looked, I couldn't find anything to fill the emptiness. I tried dying, but that only made it worse. It brought back the memories of her. In the end, the pain was all I had." His voice trailed off for a moment. "A few centuries later, I found myself on the steppes of Mongolia. There I met a man whose exploits will become things of legend. I found my purpose, and that's when I made my vow…we were invading Poland when the Khan died unexpectedly. But I found others."
"Mahomet?"
"Yes. I don't have to share his faith, just his objectives. With this army." He pointed to the flickering lights on the distant hilltops. "We will bring Christianity to its knees."
"Why? What will that achieve?" Marcus said. "It won't bring back—"
"Stop!" Thomas's face twisted in rage. "One of us will die tonight if you speak her name."
Marcus studied his wrath.
"No," Isabella stepped forward. "You don't get to erase her that easily. She was my sister, and I loved her just as much as you." She did not let Thomas reply. "You talk about loss? I lost everything…I lost my sister, and I lost you." Her eyes, filled with tears, turned to Marcus. "And you. Of course, you left. You probably took out your anger, your guilt, on some poor soul. God, how many people died to ease your pain?"
A single tear slid down her cheek.
"Isabella—" Marcus said.
"No! I'm not done. Do you know what I did? I stayed. I cleaned up the mess. I buried her. Did either of you even think of that?"
She glared at Thomas, who was looking at the ground.
"No, I'm sure you didn't." She looked back toward Marcus. "And then you came back. You always do. But I know it's only a matter of time before you leave again. I don't blame you; that's just who you are."
She paused, waiting for Thomas to look at her. When he finally did, she said, "but I expected more from yo
u. You were the best of us."
"No," Thomas shook his head. "I'm not. I never was. Just look at how I got this gift. I know the name they gave me. Doubting Thomas. My faith was never strong enough to stand the test."
"So you just quit?" Marcus asked. "Was that the answer?"
"The answer? Is that what you think this is? Is that what you think we're fighting for? There is no answer, only more questions. HE started this fifteen hundred years ago, then he just disappeared and never came back. What are we supposed to do? Walk the Earth forever? Live through the hatred, the pain that fills this world? Have you seen the things that men do to other men?"
"Yes," Isabella said.
"So that's the plan?"
"I don't know," Isabella said.
"Shouldn't you be asking yourself what God has in store for you? For us?"
"That's not our place," she countered. "You told me that yourself."
"Maybe I was wrong! Who says we can't question our future?" Thomas took a step forward and pointed to the sky. "God? The Pope? His priests? If God loves us so much, why do such horrible things happen? War, famine, disease…there is so much suffering. Why?"
"I don't know," she answered. "And neither do you. But is that enough reason for you to destroy Christianity?"
"Yes. The Church reflects all the worst qualities of man…greed, corruption, hypocrisy."
"What about humility, charity, and love?" Marcus asked.
"Tell me Marcus, which of those qualities launched the Crusades? You were there; how much love and charity did you see?" He did not wait for Marcus to reply. "What I saw was brutality, more than any man should see in a lifetime…all in the name of God. But we all know it was about greed and power. And HE let it happen…why?" Thomas clenched both his fists in front of him. "Because He wants to break us. He wants blind faith and devotion…servitude. He wants to ensure that no one ever questions the will of God again."
"Again?" Marcus frowned. "What do you mean, 'again'?"
Thomas did not reply.
"You know what? I'm done," Isabella stated flatly. She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on his. "Rebecca would be ashamed."
The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 14