Then, Philippe’s ships closed upon the harbor. Just out of range of the batteries, they took all the time they needed to methodically level the fortifications and destroy the entire base with cannon fire. Finally, a band of knights went ashore where, after killing or chasing off the remaining defenders, they set fire to the Sultan’s large store of ships’ timber.
The knights then set sail for Rhodes with the newly enlarged fleet, manned in part by some of the captives chained to the oars. As they began the journey toward Rhodes, some of the Order’s spies in the area sent word of a large Egyptian fleet seen heading south from Gallipoli to try to engage the knights on the open sea. Though, again, d’Amaral wanted to stay and fight, Philippe prevailed, and chose to run.
“Andrea, we are in no position to engage a large fleet now. Our men are weary, and many of the ships have more prisoners on board than knights. They would betray us in a fight, or at best hamper us. Let’s just slip away in the cover of night, and return to fight another day.”
The knights had always preferred to man their own galley oars with free men upon whom they could depend. The Turks used slaves, and only the lash of the overseers’ whips and their manacles kept the prisoners at the oars.
So the knights returned to their fortress on Rhodes, and Philippe’s judgment was vindicated. Few knights had been killed, and the Order’s fleet was enlarged in both ships and slaves. Philippe’s reputation for judgment and skill was greatly enhanced.
Only d’Amaral tasted the bitterness of defeat in Philippe’s victory. It was a taste he swore never to forget or forgive.
Philippe continued to stare into the darkness as his men rowed towards the waiting ship. Finally, out of the night, there appeared the outline of his great carrack, the Sancta Maria. Just off each side lay anchored two war galleys, their gun ports uncovered, and their knights standing at the ready. A platform on the outer decks was built over the rowers’ oars, providing a deck from which the knights could leap aboard the enemy ships. The knights were in full battle dress and armed. They stood atop the fighting platforms waiting for their new Grand Master.
Philippe was relieved as he boarded the ship that he would not have to face d’Amaral until he arrived in Rhodes. He needed time to think about Paris, to resolve his doubts and his sorrows. He could recover from his hard journey from Paris in this easy sail to his island fortress. So he thought.
The small flotilla weighed anchor an hour later. The outgoing tide sped them southeast on their course toward the tip of Italy. From there they would continue around the southern end of Greece to Rhodes.
Philippe stared into the darkness. The blackness of the sky merged with the surface of the water so perfectly that the ship seemed to float in a void rather than upon the sea. He felt a tightness in his chest as his mind drifted back to Paris. Had it been only five nights ago that he had said good-bye? So much had happened, so much distance traveled, that it seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. He ran his fingers through his beard, combing out the salty dampness that had already settled in the gray hairs.
He moved toward the rail of the raised afterdeck above his cabin, and stared out over the stern. In the silence, a small wake troubled the black water and reflected some of the receding lights of Marseilles. Within a few minutes, the lights flickered, dimmed, and one by one extinguished themselves in the sea. Alone in the darkness, Philippe surrendered, letting his mind drift back to Paris. Try as he might, he could not find relief from the anguish that pressed upon his chest as if a boulder had been placed there. He took deep breaths of the salt air, consciously slowing his breathing, trying to lighten his heart.
He had known that the day would come. For years, while he was still Grand Prior of France, he lived with the knowledge that he was the most likely of the Knights of St. John to be called to the position of Grand Master. D’Amaral’s and Docwra’s names would surely be proposed. Others, too, would be considered. But, Philippe knew, his own election to Grand Master was almost certainly assured.
When the messenger came to his door, Philippe knew that his world was about to change. Long before he actually stepped into the role of Grand Master, he would confront pain such as he had never known; pain of which he never dreamt. Paris and all that filled his life there was now behind him and would never be the same again. Less sure was whether he could make amends. Would Hélène ever forgive him? Would he ever see her again?
Three days later, the little fleet was sailing the channel between Malta and Syracuse at the southeast corner of Sicily. The weather was deteriorating, and the ships had closed ranks for an approaching storm. Philippe stood next to his helmsman as they beat into the increasing easterly wind. His long, gray beard was wet and salty with the spray. His black mantle was heavy and sodden from the rain.
“It will be good to see our island again, eh?” he said to the helmsman.
“Oui, Seigneur. It has been too long. And this weather will worsen surely.” Though they spoke in French, the man’s accent was clearly Portuguese. It was not lost on Philippe that his helmsman was a countryman of d’Amaral. The old man gripped the long, wooden tiller lightly, his hands callused from years of holding the hard, rough surface. The long, wooden pole curved down and back to the stern, where it was hinged to the center-line rudder.
Philippe looked at the coming storm and said, “You’re right about that storm, mon vieux. My old bones told me of this storm many hours ago. And by the feel of them, it will be a strong blow. There is also a great deal of lightning in this weather. See there? Dead ahead of us?”
“Oui, I do my Lord. But, these winds and the seas give me no choice. We will have to run through it, and hope to be out the other side in good time, grâce à Dieu.” God willing.
“Peut-être, mon ami, peut être.” Philippe said absently. Perhaps, my friend, perhaps.
The storm strengthened, and the lightning grew closer, hardly an instant between flash and sound. Several shafts of blinding flame struck the water between the boats, and the noise made even the experienced sailors nervous. Most of the crews were on deck, so they could be available in the event one of the ships or shipmates needed help; and, so that they would not be trapped below in case their ship foundered.
The crew stood facing into the wind, as the old helmsman tried to hold his course. Philippe stood back from the helm, balancing carefully as the ship split the oncoming waves. Each crash of the hull against the sea shuddered through the wooden keel. The lightning kept intensifying. Suddenly, the blinding flash and the noise of one stroke of the lightning came simultaneously. The scotoma blinded most of the men for almost a minute, as the smell of ozone overpowered the salt air. St. Elmo’s fire lit the rigging of the other ships and danced in brilliant green flames around the spars and shrouds.
When his vision cleared, Philippe could not believe what he saw. He was surrounded by the dead bodies of nine men, including the helmsman, who had been talking to him just seconds before. The clothes of the men were charred black and still smoking. The smell of ozone now mixed with that of burnt clothing and flesh. Dark blood ran from the corner of the helmsman’s mouth, and the helm moved freely in the thrashings of the sea, bringing the ship into the wind. Neither Philippe nor the remaining knights could hear a sound, for the blast of the lightning bolt had temporarily deafened everyone on board the Sancta Maria. No one spoke. The knights stood in a circle around Philippe and their nine dead comrades. Not a man moved.
Then Philippe met their eyes, all fixed upon him. No, not upon him, but upon his hand. For there in his right hand was the handle and guard of his sword. There was smoke coming from the short stub that remained of the blade. The rest of the sword lay in ashes at his feet. Its very substance and being were nothing but a few blackened cinders of steel on the scorched deck where lay the bodies of nine of his brave knights. Some of the molten steel still glowed orange, branding a blackened scar on the wooden deck.
Philippe’s hand burned, the pain radiating upwards into his shoulder. He
tried to release the hot sword handle, but his fist would not open. The muscles of his forearm were frozen in spasm so that the handle of his destroyed sword remained tight in his involuntary grasp.
In that instant, a legend was born. Though Philippe was never to hear of it directly, the men believed that this was a prophesy from God. It was a sign that Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam had been sent by the Almighty to lead the Knights Hospitaller of the Order of St. John to victory over the Muslims. The new Grand Master had been baptized in fire from heaven. They had all seen it, and nobody could deny it.
Philippe returned to his cabin on the Sancta Maria. He settled down on his bed, trying to find a comfortable place for his burned hand, but failed to do so. It still throbbed, though the surgeon had assured him that he would fully recover from the burns. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. As his body relaxed, he realized with some surprise that the events of the past few days had so consumed his attention, that this was the first time since leaving Paris that his mind had not been at least partially preoccupied with thoughts of Hélène. As he fell into the first really deep sleep in days, sleep protected by the presence of his ship and his knights, he saw her face again, looking at him as he left her apartment in Paris for the very last time.
The Topkapi Palace, Istanbul
September, 1521
“Take this letter at once, and see it delivered directly into the hands of the Ambassador, himself. Release it to no one else. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Majesty.” The Janissary rose from his knees and took the letter from Suleiman. He placed it securely in a leather bag at his waist, and backed through the door. There he retrieved his sword and made for the exits from the Palace.
Ibrahim was surprised to hear the Sultan have a conversation with a person so far beneath him as a Janissary. Normally, there was almost complete silence in Suleiman’s presence, except for his closest advisors or his Viziers. A centuries-old Ottoman tradition held that in the inner recesses of the Sultan’s Palace, silence must be observed. The world of the Sultan would be free from the cacophony of random noise generated in the streets of the Empire. To ensure this, Suleiman had adopted a language of hand signals called Ixarette. He learned this from two mute gardeners in his inner court. The sign language obviated the need for any conversation with his servants, and served to accentuate the magnitude of the separation between the Sultan and his servants. As time went on, Suleiman became more dependent upon Ixarette, and verbal conversations with anyone other than his close advisers were rare.
Suleiman sat on the divan, drinking fruit nectar from his favorite jade goblet. Generations of Ottoman Sultans had drunk only from vessels made of jade, because the court scientists believed that most poisons would discolor the delicate stone. Suleiman swirled the liquid and cursorily examined the walls of the goblet. It remained a rich translucent green.
“Well, Ibrahim? What think you of our letter?”
Ibrahim smiled and nodded. He rose from the divan and began to pace. Suleiman allowed Ibrahim this annoying habit, for he knew it settled the man and helped him see through the various possibilities of a problem.
Ibrahim thought for a moment and said, “This letter must be sent. The Qur’an tells us that we must warn our enemy and give him an opportunity to surrender to us. Yes, the letter is necessary.”
Suleiman nodded his head slowly. “But, it will have no effect. The knights will never surrender their fortress without a battle. But, I’ve done everything the Qur’an requires of me.”
The two men were in the Sultan’s Privy Chamber, now made up for the daytime as an audience room.
“Do you worry for the safety of the young soldier who carries the letter, my Lord?”
“Yes. You never can tell what the Infidel will do when bad news arrives. Do you remember what happened to my envoy to Hungary? All he did was bring news of my accession as Sultan.”
“Yes, I do. Poor man, he was rewarded for his troubles by having his nose and his ears cut off! Only by the grace of Allah—and our court physicians—did he survive at all. But, I think, my Lord, that the Grand Master will know your meaning quite well. This ‘Letter of Victory’ cannot be misconstrued as anything but a threat. Though I, myself, am as yet undecided as to the wisdom of the venture.”
“Why? Have we not covered ourselves with glory since we took the White City of Belgrade? Did our armies not show the world that we cannot be stopped? Have they not seen Suleiman, the warrior, equal to their wildest comparisons with Selim? So, now, why not Rhodes?”
“I fully agree that the Infidel knights need to be driven from the island once and forever. They have preyed upon our trade and shipping for far too long.”
“Too long? They have been pirates upon our Mediterranean and Aegean routes for two hundred years!”
“Forgive me, Majesty, perhaps I spoke too mildly. Yes, they have been pirates, or corsairs as their new Grand Master would put it, upon our trade routes for two hundred years. Why, I have heard that sea called the ‘Lake of the Knights of St. John.’ And we’ve lost many millions in treasure and trade to their war galleys. Not to mention the enslavement of our people. Yes, we must make it an Ottoman Lake once again.”
“It’s fully time that they were stopped,” Suleiman interrupted. His father, Selim, had never been happy with the knights’ location between Istanbul and Egypt, and had been preparing to attack them when he died. “My war with Hungary was an extension of my father’s war, and I needed it to take command of my armies. Really take command. If it were not for Belgrade, I would still not know how much I could depend upon the loyalty of the young troops. You think it was a whim that I took the pay of a Janissary for myself?”
“No, my Lord, I do not.” Ibrahim recalled the day in detail. It was a wonderful display of the Sultan’s cunning and perception.
Piri Pasha had wanted Suleiman to be seen as the true leader of the Janissaries. He had told the Sultan, “These young men are restless, Majesty. They long for battle. They live for nothing else. They have no families, no wives. Their only friends are each other. They live in camps, and train day in and day out to fight and to kill. And when there is no war, there is no extra gold. No reward. No glory. It’s bad for them in the city, where they chew the bitter roots of drill and discipline and eat indoors at the kitchens instead of outdoors, as in the war camps. You must lead them. They must see you as their Seraskier, their Commander-in-Chief!”
The next morning, the yeni cheri were drummed to assembly. They were shocked to see the Sultan not upon his horse, but walking on foot among them. This was unheard of. They drew to attention, and squared their ranks in preparation for the morning march and drill. Usually, on these paydays, the Janissaries would rush wildly at the Paymaster, forgetting all discipline. But now, the Sultan was among them. There would be no chaos. The officers and men were at rigid attention. The ranks were arrow straight. Although there were more than five thousand Janissaries gathered there in the huge Second Court of the Palace, not a sound was heard. Not a man spoke, nor moved. In the stillness, even a whisper would have been heard by everyone.
Suleiman walked in front of his troops. He wore his battle dress instead of the gold brocade and silks in which he usually appeared in public. His boots and hat resembled those of the Janissaries. He moved to the head of their columns, and then lined up with his men. Together, they all waited for the Paymaster’s distribution. The Sultan was going to be paid as a non-commissioned officer in the Janissary Guard!
Bali Agha, Seraskier of the Janissaries, stood to the side and smoothed the long black mustache that hung below his jowls. He nodded to Ibrahim, who was waiting off behind the troops, mounted on his restless black stallion. The only sound now was the stamping of his horse’s hooves and the occasional snort of breath from its flared nostrils.
Suleiman nodded to the Paymaster as he received a handful of silver aspers, and slipped them into his leather pouch. Ibrahim knew that these young men would now willingly die for their master
. The Sultan was not a Sipahi, nor a galley-man. He was a Janissary! He was one of them. A Janissary could walk past the Sipahi horsemen now with pride, for the Sultan himself would go to war with them.
Almost immediately after ascending to the throne, Suleiman had led his troops to Belgrade. After three months, the city had fallen to Suleiman’s army. The twenty-five-year-old Sultan had his first great victory, and the kings of Europe began to tremble as the news reached them of the might and bravery of the armies of this Son of Selim. In less than six months, the Sultan had returned with his armies to Istanbul, weighed down with treasure and slaves. All of Christianity waited in terror to see where his armies would turn next.
“Yes, Majesty,” said Ibrahim. “That was a day, indeed!”
Suleiman smiled at his friend. “Indeed.”
A servant entered the room and knelt at the doorway. He touched his head to the floor. Then, without rising, he began to converse with the Sultan using the hand signals.
Though Ibrahim was well versed in the Sultan’s hand signs, he rarely used them in Suleiman’s presence. He understood that the servant was announcing the Steward of the Hazine, the Treasury. Suleiman signaled for the Steward to be admitted to the room. The servant backed away, and the Steward entered. The old man was attired in a rich caftan of silk brocade and a white turban adorned with crimson herons’ feathers. He knelt with great difficulty on the carpet before the Sultan, and pressed his head to the floor. Suleiman bid the Steward to rise, and extended his arm. The old man touched his forehead to the Sultan’s sleeve and rose from his kneeling position. Ibrahim could see the pain in the man’s eyes as his arthritic knees struggled with the ceremony of greeting the Sultan.
“Majesty,” he began, “if it pleases you, I should like to take you and the Captain of the Inner House on a tour of the Royal Hazine.” The man kept his eyes bowed and waited for a response.
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