Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  “Thief?” she said. “What thief?”

  Philippe pointed to where the basket had been and said, “Your basket. I’m afraid it’s gone. But, thank God you are all right.”

  The two stared at each other for a moment. Only then did Hélène realize what had happened. At the same time Philippe saw what he had done to the young woman, and after an awkward moment the two began to laugh. Philippe reached out and took her hand as she stepped out of the fountain, soaked through from her toes to the bottoms of her breasts, which were now outlined beyond any hope of modesty. Hélène stepped from the fountain and began to shiver. Through her chattering teeth she said, “Je suis désolé aussi, Monsieur le Chevalier.” I, too, am sorry, Monsieur Knight. “Your nose…and your hand. I’m so sorry.”

  Philippe covered her body with his surcoat, and helped Hélène back to her small apartment near the market. He started a fire for her to help ward off the cold, and made some tea while she changed into dry clothes.

  So Philippe had met the young woman. They met often after that, clandestinely at first. Usually, they stayed at her apartment, but after a few weeks the secrecy began to weigh upon them. Their affair took on a seedy feeling. They began to go out into the streets of Paris more and more openly. Though Hélène could never be seen at formal functions of the Knights Hospitaller, she was content to bide her time with Philippe. They didn’t discuss the future at all.

  It was now nearly three years since Hélène had broken Philippe’s nose and captured his heart. And he loved her more every day. Where, he thought, is Hélène now?

  Philippe found himself staring again at the oak desk, and his real world closed in once more.

  As Philippe returned to the present, Gabriel de Pommerols, a lieutenant and countryman of the Grand Master’s, rushed into the anteroom. He was breathless, and paused a moment to collect himself. Then he removed his helmet and bowed to Philippe. Philippe motioned him to the table. Pommerols removed his cape, gloves, and sword, and sat down opposite Philippe.

  “Seigneur, un moment, je vous en prie.” My Lord, a moment, please.

  Philippe waited silently for de Pommerols to get settled. As they waited, Thomas Scheffield entered the room. As Seneschal, the officer in charge of domestic relations and ceremony, he would naturally be privy to all important communications with the Grand Master.

  Sheffield nodded to de Pommerols and took a seat beside him. “I heard of your arrival, Gabriel. What news of the reinforcements?”

  “Doucement, Thomas.” Gently. Philippe held his hand up, giving de Pommerols a moment more.

  Finally, collecting himself, de Pommerols said, “My Lords, I have very little good news to tell you. Though we have gotten word to all the knights who have been away to come home at once, the rest of my mission has been a failure.” Philippe and Sheffield looked at each other and then back to de Pommerols. Neither spoke. Sheffield toyed with the knife at his belt, while the Grand Master sat quietly with his hands folded in front of him.

  De Pommerols went on. “Pope Adrian will send us neither money nor men. He refused us even after he heard the pleadings of Cardinal Giulio d’Medici. The Cardinal is a member of our Order, my Lord, and even his tears had no effect on the Pope. His Eminence says that he can spare neither troops nor money at this time. He says that he needs all his resources to fight the French armies now harassing him on the very soil of Italy.”

  “And of England? What news there?”

  “Henry of England will send no help either. He needs money for his domestic wars and extravagances.” De Pommerols looked at Thomas, expecting disapproval for speaking of his sovereign this way. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but it is so.”

  Sheffield nodded. This was not news to him. His loyalty after so many years was to his brother knights more than to his king. He had only lived a few years on English soil, and since he joined the Order, he had not been home at all.

  “Henry is at this moment claiming many of the lands and estates of our own knights. He is taking them on various pretexts, but in reality he needs the incomes, and he’s jealous of the power we have gained abroad.”

  Philippe waited a moment, and then asked, “And France?”

  “Chaos rules Europe, my Lord. As Holy Roman Emperor, Charles is worried about this heretic Martin Luther. Luther’s following is growing larger by the day, and he divides the people of the Church. Charles is at open war with Francis. Francis is at war with Italy. Everyone fears to send us money or men that they might need themselves. They send us only their prayers and their good wishes. I am afraid, my Lord, we can look only to ourselves for our salvation.”

  “And to God. But, I expected nothing of them. I had only hoped. They have a long history of looking on and doing nothing. Only a year or so ago, when the Turk attacked Belgrade, the King of Hungary sent to Europe for help. Indeed, they should have feared that the loss of Belgrade would bring the Sultan’s armies to their very doorstep. But, they did nothing. The princes of Europe hoped that the Turks would be turned back without their help. Now they quiver in fear of another Turkish attack. Buda, Prague, and Vienna will fall to the Sultan as surely as did Belgrade. But, they fight among themselves and send no aid to anyone. No. We must expect no help from anyone but ourselves and God Almighty.”

  Philippe rose from the table and walked to the window. He looked out over the walls toward the sea. The sky was clear, and only the occasional fair-weather clouds dotted the expanse of rich blue. White caps blew off the surface of the ocean and wisps of spray were visible from the window. He thought of his peaceful island and its incredible beauty. The crops of fruit and the roses. The mountains and the clear streams. Now, after forty-two years of relative peace, the blood of his knights and of the Rhodians would once again stain the streets of his city.

  The Grand Master waited in his private chambers for the arrival of Antonio Bosio. By now, the Servant-at-Arms had proven himself able to handle the most difficult and dangerous assignments. The man was inventive and determined. Little could stop him once he had made up his mind on any given task.

  When the Grand Master was provisioning the fortress for the lengthy siege to come, he had assigned Bosio the task of getting as much wine as might be needed for at least one year. The wine would be necessary as a medicinal as well as a libation. Bosio went out in a galley with a full complement of heavily armed knights. In short order, he negotiated fifteen shiploads of wine bound for various Mediterranean ports under a Venetian flag. Venice was trying hard to stay neutral in the coming conflict with Turkey, fearing that Suleiman might turn his armies on her instead of Rhodes.

  After Bosio had diverted the Venetian ships to Rhodes, he then enrolled the foreign crews to fight as mercenaries for the knights. In spite of the Venetian neutrality, he was able to conscript five hundred expert archers from Crete. They were all off-loaded disguised as wine laborers and merchants, and quickly organized into a fighting force.

  Shortly thereafter, Bosio boarded the ship of Master Bonaldi, a Venetian, bound for Istanbul with seven hundred casks of wine. With a little persuasion, Bonaldi eventually volunteered his services as well as the wine.

  Less-willing accomplices were also boarded on the high seas. Domenico Fornari, a Genoese sailor, was bound for Istanbul from Alexandria with a load of grains. Eight miles from Rhodes, Bosio boarded his ship, and was able—after several uncomfortable hours for Fornari—to convince the man to serve the knights.

  Philippe paced the floor as he waited for Bosio. There was a loud double rap at the door, and Bosio appeared in the doorway. Philippe nodded impatiently, summoning Bosio into the room. “Sit down, Antonio. I have a dangerous mission for you.”

  Bosio smiled, moved to the desk, and sat opposite Philippe’s chair. Philippe remained standing. “I have received a good deal of intelligence that Suleiman has recruited expert miners and sappers from his lands in Bosnia. These mines, along with his very powerful artillery, is surely what he intends to use to destroy our defenses. The walls were well r
einforced these last months, and I think artillery alone will not breach them. But, if he has the time to dig beneath the walls and set mines, there might be the danger of a breach. Especially in some of the weaker fortifications such as the Bastion of England.”

  Bosio listened in silence. He had no idea where this was leading, or what his job would be.

  Philippe continued. “There is a Bergamese engineer named Gabriele Tadini da Martinengo. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes, my Lord, I have.”

  “Well, my sources tell me he is a genius in the arts of mining and countermining. He is working as Engineer General and Colonel of Infantry for the Governor of Venice in Crete, the Duke of Trevisani.”

  “Trevisani will never let him go, my Lord. Venice is committed to staying out of this war. They are afraid of Suleiman’s armies more than they are afraid of their hostile neighbors.”

  “Yes. Quite. But, this Tadini; he is, from what I hear, a soldier of fortune. My sources tell me he is bored in Crete. He is a military genius and a ferocious fighter. I suspect that the right person could convince him to join our side in the coming battle. They tell me he longs for battle, and could be turned.”

  “And you would like me to ‘turn’ him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “He is still on Crete, in Candia, not far from the Bay of Mirabella. I have sent inquiries to see if he might be able to come of his own accord. Somehow, Trevisani heard of my offer and forbade Tadini to join us. On pain of death.”

  “So, Tadini knows we want him. And from what you tell me, he seems inclined to join us. I would have only to provide a way?”

  “Exactly. But, it would be dangerous for you both. If the Duke’s guard were to catch you, you would surely hang. Both of you.”

  “We will not be caught, my Lord. I assure you of that. When do I leave?”

  “Tonight. There is a galley in the Mandraccio with a full complement of knights. Most of them have sailed with you before. Provisions are on board. Here is a letter under my seal for you to give to Tadini. It will guarantee his wages and his rank, as well as safe conduct should he wish to leave us.” Philippe handed Bosio the papers.

  “I will be back with Tadini, my Lord. You have my word.”

  “God speed to you both.”

  Bosio’s galley hove to just off shore, not far from the cliffs near the Bay of Mirabella. The night sky was lit only by the starlight, and the wind was light. Bosio and the knights waited on deck as the galley’s oarsmen held water. They dared not anchor, for they were poised to move in an instant. Bosio squinted into the darkness. He watched the beach in the direction of Candia.

  The meeting three nights earlier had gone well. His galley had pulled near shore at Candia. He had been put ashore in a small boat and was met—as planned—by two old friends, Scaramosa and Conversalo. Bosio trusted them both with his life. In the middle of the night, they took Bosio to Tadini’s quarters. Tadini read the letter from Philippe, and without a moment’s hesitation had wrapped his arms around Bosio and lifted him off the ground. He kissed Bosio on both cheeks, and then turned to his two companions and said in Italian, “E tu due? Son con noi?” And you two? Are you with us?

  “Of course, Signore,” Scaramosa replied, “but we cannot stay here now. Andiamo!” Let’s go.

  “Signore Bosio. Give me three nights to gather my things and prepare for our escape. These men need the time, too. We must also make a diversion for that night, so nobody will know we are gone for several hours. That will give us time to meet you. Once we are on the galley, I am confident that your fine crew will get us safely out of here and off to Rhodes.”

  He hugged Bosio again with an exuberance that he just could not contain. Two more kisses were planted on Bosio’s cheeks before Tadini let him go. “We will show those Muslims a thing or two about mining, eh? I have a new invention I am anxious to try. The Sultan will regret his little expedition, and wish he had stayed in Istanbul. This, I can promise you.”

  As the galley neared the entrance into the Mandraccio, Philippe recognized the shape and the uniform of Antonio Bosio standing atop the ramming sprit in the bow, waving wildly to the small gathering on the pier. Standing next to him was the man that Philippe could not recognize but was so anxious to meet. The galley hove to, the lines cast ashore. Greetings were shouted in French and Italian. The camaraderie was contagious, and soon all the knights were greeting their brothers from the galley.

  Tadini extricated himself from the embraces of the knights and turned to the Grand Master. He took Philippe’s extended hand and knelt down on one knee. He bowed his head and kissed the Grand Master’s gauntlet. Then he rose and burst into a great wide smile. “Gabriele Tadini da Martinengo, Seigneur. À votre service.”

  “Benvenuto, mìo amico.” Philippe’s Italian was passable.

  “Si, Signore. Con tutto mi cuòre.” Yes, my Lord. With all my heart.

  Philippe turned to Docwra and the knights and said, “Leave us now. We will celebrate the arrival of these brave men tonight at dinner at the Inn of France. For now, I have great need to speak with Brother Tadini at my quarters.” Philippe had called Tadini his brother, indicating to the crowd that they had just welcomed a new knight into their ranks.

  It was June 26th, the Feast of the Corpus Domini. The first ships of the main force of the Turks were expected to pass just offshore before the city of Rhodes. As the midsummer morning sun moved over the walls of the fortress, the palace gates suddenly opened, and the procession began. The Grand Master was mounted upon a magnificent charger, whose muscles rippled beneath its carefully groomed white hair. The horse was in full battle armor, his rider was completely covered in his own ceremonial armor of gold, which glistened in the sun, making it difficult to look directly at him.

  The Piliers of the eight langues who rode behind the Grand Master were also dressed in their finest battle armor. The Piliers were the senior knights in each langue, and held traditional posts in the Order. Docwra, himself of the langue of England, was the Turcopilier, or Commander of the Light Cavalry. As he moved along the Street of the Knights he passed the Auberges, the Inns, of the other langues. At the Inn of Italy, the Admiral of the Fleet moved alongside Docwra. Then as they passed the Auberge de France, the Pilier who served as Hospitaller joined their ranks. The three moved on and were joined by the Marshal from Auvergne and the Grand Commander from Provence. As they approached the Loggia, the open court at the end of the Street of the Knights, they were met by the Grand Conservator from Aragon and the Grand Bailiff from Germany. The seven men walked quickly in a tight knot through the Loggia, where a number of knights were drilling and preparing for the coming war.

  As the day progressed, they would grow distinctly uncomfortable in their heavy hot outfits. But, for the moment they were a splendid spectacle that gave heart to the citizens of Rhodes.

  Five hundred knights followed on foot, dressed in their scarlet battle surcoats with the white crosses of St. John on the left front breast and in the center of the back. They carried their broadswords and battle shields as they filed past the crowds gathered in the city. Within the walls of the city, the town was bursting with people and animals. Nearly the entire population of the island had sought refuge from the oncoming Turks, bringing with them farm animals and pets, food and household provisions. Many side streets were blocked with carts and supplies. Dogs wandered the alleyways looking for food and for their lost families.

  In spite of the crowding and the discomfort, the knights and the citizens were happy to proceed with the festival day. They needed to show themselves, as much as the Turks, that they were not afraid.

  As the Grand Master proceeded past the crowd at the entrance to the Collachio, the Convent of the Knights, trumpets announced his passage and drums marked the time of his march. At a signal from within the Street of the Knights, the highest windows of all the Auberges of the various langues were thrown open, and hundreds of flags began to wave
in the morning sun. The yellow lilies on a blue background marked the Inn of France; golden lions rampant were flown from the Inn of England. All the langues displayed their colors, the crowds cheering the display of each in turn.

  In the procession, the knights marched by country. There were only nineteen knights from England on the island, and they formed their own small phalanx. Their force of only nineteen knights, led by Turcopilier John Buck, was combined with the knights from Aragon. Throughout the history of the Order, the Knights of Provence had traditionally taken on the defense of the most dangerous outposts. On Rhodes, they would continue the tradition with the defense of the vital Tower of St. Nicholas. The French fielded the largest body of knights, with over two hundred of them marching behind the Piliers.

  As the knights passed the entrance to the city, they received blessings from their spiritual leaders. In a show of solidarity, the Latin Bishop, Leonardo Balestrieri, and the Greek Archbishop, Clement, stood shoulder to shoulder making signs of the cross and murmuring prayers for the knights and their city.

  As the parade left the city, the crowds followed them through the outer streets and into the nearby countryside. From across the blue water they all could see the massive armada that was heading their way. Hundreds of ships of war under full sail were plowing a white foam on the water’s surface. By noon, the Turkish ships were clearly in view, and it would be hard to find anyone on Rhodes who did not resonate significant fear at the sight of this enormous battle armada. In a few moments, the brave knights, the citizen militia, and the mercenaries realized the pitiful size of their own army compared to the hoard of men and supplies that was bearing down on their island home.

  As Suleiman’s fleet passed the tip of the island and began their turn southeast to their debarkation point at Kallitheas Bay, a deafening roar filled the air. Many of the citizens thought they were under attack, and ran for cover. Horses shied, and the riders struggled to maintain control. Then smoke appeared on the wind, coming from the battlements of Fort St. Nicholas, which guarded the mole at the end of the Galley Port. When all eyes turned there, the knights and the Rhodians could see a second volley fired from their city at the Turkish fleet. They began to cheer and throw their hats into the air. A few people could see the splash of the cannon shot landing well short of the ships in the choppy seas. The Turks knew to keep out of range, and the knights at the fort knew they could not reach the ships. The knights wanted only to show the Turks what welcome was in store for them. For their part, many of the Turkish sailors had heard stories of the destruction that the knights’ cannons had inflicted upon the Turkish fleet in 1480. Rather than responding with cannon fire, the Turks bombarded the Rhodians with music. From the shores, the knights and the citizens of Rhodes could just make out the sound of trumpets and drums; of bosuns’ whistles and tambours; of cymbals and pipes.