Cortoglu stepped suddenly forward, and was about to protest, when he caught the eye of Pilaq, the Admiral. Pilaq frowned but held his place. Cortoglu said nothing, but sagged and stepped back. Suleiman nodded his head, and four Janissaries stepped into the small open space. Two of them grabbed Cortoglu by the elbows, while the other two bound his wrists tightly behind his back with leather thongs. The sailors and Azabs held their positions facing the detachment of Janissaries in the bright sunlight. Nobody moved aboard the galley. All eyes were on Cortoglu and the scene being played out on the afterdeck.
Cortoglu started to struggle against the tight leather thongs. Then he caught sight of Pilaq again, standing impassively next to the Janissaries. Cortoglu realized that no matter how painful and degrading this punishment might be, it would be better than death at the hands of Suleiman’s executioners.
Suleiman stared at Pilaq for a moment and then turned back to Cortoglu. He nodded to the Janissaries. Suddenly, Cortoglu dropped directly to the deck. His feet had been kicked out from under him by his guards. He gave out a great exhalation of breath as he landed on his buttocks, sitting with his legs straight out in front of him. Next the guards pulled off his leather boots and tied each of his ankles over a wooden bar set up between two posts. His feet dangled over the end of the bar. The crew could see their Reis begin to tremble. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled to keep from falling over onto his back. He stretched his hands down as far as he could and pressed upon the wooden deck to keep himself upright, to maintain what was left of his dignity.
The crew and the Janissaries were absolutely silent. The great galley rocked gently in the light chop and swell. Small waves lapped against the wooden hull. In the oppressive heat below decks, the slaves slept bent over their oar-looms. Their world did not include what was happening above decks. Had they known, they might have cheered.
The only sound heard on the ship was the light breeze moving through the rigging. Cortoglu looked into Suleiman’s eyes. The corsair did not plead, he only stared. As his fear was replaced by anger, his face began to redden. His breathing quickened. Then, as if he had some inner revelation regarding his fate, he sagged and lowered his eyes to the deck. He stared at the white skin on his feet. He focused on the hairs of his toes. Anything was preferable to looking into the eyes of the Sultan.
The Janissaries stood stiffly at attention. Their plumed hats moved on the breeze. Ibrahim looked at the faces of the sailors. He thought he could see pleasure in their eyes. He knew that these men had suffered terribly under the command of this fearful pirate. It was time for Suleiman to replace Cortoglu with a more competent and respected Reis.
Again, Suleiman nodded to the captain of the Janissaries. The captain spoke softly to the Janissary at his right. The young soldier carefully took off his hat and handed it to one of his mates. Next, he removed his belt and scimitar, and, with a bow, handed over those as well. He stepped forward and faced the Janissary captain. The captain took a six-foot bamboo stick and flexed it in his two hands. It was about one inch in diameter, and had a leather handle at one end. The leather of the bastinado was darkened from the sweat of the many hands that had used it.
The soldier bowed to the captain, who held the bastinado in front of him with two hands palms up. The captain nodded his head. The soldier took the weapon and turned to face Cortoglu. He slashed the weapon twice through the air. Several of the sailors winced as they heard the terrible swish of the bamboo slicing through the breeze.
The young man stepped up to the bar, measuring his distance from Cortoglu’s feet. He turned so that the bamboo would strike both soles of the Reis’s feet simultaneously, parallel to the deck. He held the bastinado against the soles for a moment. Cortoglu tensed at the light touch of the stick. The soldier looked to his captain, who, in his turn, looked to Suleiman.
Suleiman nodded to the captain; the captain to the soldier. The stick was brought back to shoulder height, and the first stroke of Cortoglu’s punishment was delivered. The stick whistled through the air, and the smack against the soft soles of the pirate’s feet was heard all over the ship. It was immediately drowned out by the scream that came from Cortoglu himself. Not a single person watching the punishment could help but recoil at the terrible stroke. As the soldier brought the stick back to his shoulder, all eyes were on the bright red welt across both feet. Cortoglu shook with the pain and he squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for the next stroke.
Again, the stick whistled through the air, and again Cortoglu screamed in synchrony with the sound of the bamboo against his tender flesh. Now the crew and the Janissaries were transfixed. They saw that there was still only a single welt across both feet. The soldier, trained so well in the accurate use of his deadly scimitar, had struck the pirate in exactly the same spot as the first stroke. This time, Cortoglu’s body shook with the impact, but he uttered no sound. His lips were pressed tightly together and the sweat poured down his face. He dared not look into the eyes of his Sultan. Though he knew that the extent of his suffering was in Suleiman’s hands, he was afraid to challenge the Sultan with any eye contact. He knew that this punishment could end at any moment, depending upon a whim. It could also be the prelude to a beheading if the Sultan so chose.
Cortoglu squeezed his eyes tightly again and waited for the pain. And it came. Again and again, the bamboo whistled through the air and landed in precisely the same spot on Cortoglu’s feet. The callused skin separated after only three strokes, and blood began to trickle from the crease. On the next stroke, the blood spattered across the deck, and Cortoglu bit down upon his lower lip to stifle his screams. Blood trickled from his lower lip.
The beating continued. Even the Janissaries began to look away from the ordeal. The sailors forgot their grievances against their captain. The obvious pain and brutality of the punishment affected everyone watching.
Pilaq Mustapha Pasha could barely contain his terror. He knew that he was next. He squeezed his buttock and bladder muscles, trying to keep himself from losing control in front of the entire command.
Ibrahim had long since looked away from the spectacle, and was gazing out over the blue-green waters of the Mediterranean Sea. He forced himself to see the green hills in the distance, and imagined his beloved falcons swooping down upon the hares and wild birds of Rhodes.
Mustapha Pasha looked straight ahead, but he, too, had taken his mind elsewhere. He thought of his wife, Suleiman’s eldest sister, Ayse, and focused on her face and those of his children. Soon, he didn’t even hear the sound of the stick.
Only Suleiman and the young soldier who wielded the stick focused directly upon the bleeding feet of Cortoglu. Suleiman showed no emotion at all. Cortoglu had failed in his duties, and for that he was being given the usual punishment. He should be grateful that his head is not already adorning the bowsprit, Suleiman thought again.
After fifty strokes, Cortoglu slumped backward onto the deck. His body had mercifully shut him off from the pain. His brain had protected him from any more of his Sultan’s wrath.
As soon as the pirate’s body relaxed, the captain looked to Suleiman. The Sultan nodded, and the captain ordered the soldier to step back. The soldier handed the bastinado to the Janissary captain and bowed. He wiped the sweat from his own forehead, and took his hat and scimitar from his mate. Though nobody had moved, all eyes were now on Pilaq Mustapha Pasha. The Reis was trembling, but stood at rigid attention. He, too, looked out over the sea, avoiding the gaze of his Sultan.
Suleiman gestured to Cortoglu and said, “This man has paid for his incompetence. Cut him loose and take him away. I want him on the next galley out of here, and if ever I lay eyes upon his miserable face again, he will die on the very spot. Make that known to him.”
Then he turned to Pilaq. “Pilaq Mustapha Pasha, I think you have suffered much of the pain inflicted upon Cortoglu. The day grows hot and I must return to the battlefield. I will not, therefore, have you bastinadoed, as was this miserable wretch here befor
e you. You are relieved of command of this fleet. Take yourself back to Istanbul if you so wish. You may live there unmolested. But, be sure that I do not see you again.”
Pilaq bowed his head and kept it lowered for the remainder of the time that Suleiman was on the ship. The Sultan signaled to his men and turned from the afterdeck. He boarded the waiting galley and, as he took his seat, he could just see the still unconscious body of Cortoglu being dragged from the deck by four sailors.
Just south of the Palace of the Grand Master, behind the walls of the Post of Germany, was the Tower of the Church of St. John. From here the knights had an invaluable observation post, from which they could relay information throughout the city. The church bells were used in code to provide rapid dispersal of information to the knights at the other stations. Enemy troop movements and the disposition of the Turkish cannon could be known in minutes after being observed. Since knights were stationed inside the church tower twenty-four hours a day, this command post was at the very center of the defenders’ intelligence.
Suleiman was resting after his morning on board the flagship. The punishment of Cortoglu and the firing of Pilaq had sapped his energy. He did not enjoy the terrible physical punishment that was traditional in his empire. But he could not think of a suitable way to replace it.
He lay upon the cushions in his tent and finished a small lunch. Ibrahim was with him, but had said little since the terrible spectacle on the ship. Most of his life with Suleiman had been spent in play or in learning together. Now that his boyhood friend was Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, the realities of a life of command were being thrust daily in Ibrahim’s face. It was one thing to see the results of war. It was quite another to watch it as it happened. He had heard many stories of the punishments meted out by the Sultans. But, this was the first time he had witnessed it in person.
“Majesty,” he said, breaking a long-standing rule that Suleiman must begin all conversations, “this ordeal has taken much energy from you. If you will allow me, perhaps you should rest here the remainder of the day. I will ride to the camps of the Aghas and report the day’s progress to you later.”
“Thank you. It’s good to have somebody at my side who understands the burden of command. But, I must be seen by the troops to be in command and in control. It is hard enough to get them to fight at all sometimes. Not the Janissaries. But, the Azabs and the slaves. They must fear me more than they fear the knights. It must seem to them preferable to die in battle than to die in the wake of my wrath. No, I will rest awhile, and then we will review the battle together.”
A messenger appeared at the door. Suleiman beckoned him in. The servant handed over the message, bowed, and backed out of the tent. Suleiman motioned Ibrahim closer and unrolled the paper. He read it in silence, and then smiled.
“What does it say, my Lord?”
“It is from one of our spies inside the fort. Apparently it was tied to an arrow and shot into the camp of Ayas Pasha before dawn. It seems that the knights have an observation post in a church behind the walls opposite the camp of Ayas Pasha. Our guns have done little if anything to damage the walls guarded by the Germans. But, perhaps we can use them to destroy the tower.”
“Shall we make that our first stop?”
“Yes. Send word to Ayas Pasha to keep up the bombardment there. Then move more of Achmed Pasha’s cannons in support. We’ll ride out and see what we can see.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Ibrahim put on his turban and left the tent. Suleiman finished his lunch, now energized with the thought that he could issue commands that would, finally, advance the progress of his war against the Infidel.
Ayas Pasha and Achmed Pasha stood together behind a high stone wall in Ayas Pasha’s camp. Together they watched as twelve of their most powerful cannons failed to destroy the fortifications in front of them.
“My captains tell me the Sultan is on his way here to see what progress we have made,” Ayas said.
Achmed slowly shook his head and said, “I fear that we may be next on our Sultan’s punishment list. He does not tolerate failure, no matter what the reason.”
“What can he expect from us? These are the best cannons in the world. Our gunners are doing all they can. But, the knights’ batteries have us spotted. We are being fired upon round for round. As soon as my batteries open fire, the Germans return fire and either destroy my guns or kill the gunner. Truly, I am running out of good men. And we have done nothing to breach the integrity of that wall. The Janissaries will not make their way into the city from here.”
Both men watched the exchange of fire. The Turkish gunners shot huge stone balls directly at the Post of Germany. The blast was deafening, and the impact could be felt even as far away as Ayas and Achmed were stationed. When the smoke and dust was cleared by the afternoon breeze, all they could see was a hole in the stones, and more stone behind it. Their cannonball had only added to the mass of the wall, and had damaged nothing. The very same Florentine engineers who had made Fort St. Nicholas all but indestructible had done the same to most of the walls of the city.
As the Pashas watched the bombardment, Ayas Pasha saw several of his personal guard jump to their feet and stand at attention. He turned casually and saw twenty Janissaries on each side of Suleiman and Ibrahim, who were riding their horses into his camp. He placed his hand on Achmed’s shoulder and said, “The Sultan. He’s here.”
Achmed turned and looked behind him. “Allah have mercy upon us now. He’ll not like what he sees here today.”
Suleiman and Ibrahim rode up to the two waiting Pashas. Neither dismounted, but remained in the saddles, their horses facing the city. Neither spoke. After several more rounds were fired from the most distant battery, Suleiman saw that there had been no effect at all. Then the German guns opened fire and, in a blast that shook the ground and made the horses stamp and turn, the Turkish cannon disappeared in a storm of smoke and dirt. Rocks fell from the sky and men screamed. The bodies of the dead gunners lay draped around the crater where their mangled cannon was lying on its side, the metal smoking in the sun. Two wounded soldiers crawled from the crater as fellow artillerymen ran to drag them out of harm’s way.
Achmed and Ayas Pasha looked up at Suleiman, who could only shake his head. He turned to Achmed Pasha and said, “May Allah have mercy upon them.” Then, in a voice of command, he said to Achmed Pasha, “Move all of yours and Ayas Pasha’s cannon to one good firing position and direct your men to fire over the walls. Take Qasim Pasha with you. He is the finest artillery man we have now. Target the Tower of the Church of St. John. Look on the map. You will see it near the Palace. Destroy it! Send word to my camp when it is done.”
Suleiman wheeled his horse and returned to his tour of the camps. Ibrahim waited for a moment and then turned to the two Pashas, who were standing there bewildered. “If you wish to keep your heads, or at very least, the soles of your feet, do exactly as the Sultan commands.”
Then he, too, spurred his horse and caught up with Suleiman.
Philippe stood on the balcony of his Palace with Thomas Docwra and John Buck. The three faced south, discussing the disposition of their troops. Docwra said, “Right now, I think we need to support the weaker langues, my Lord. The Turks have not broken through any of the ramparts yet, but I fear that they are getting ready to make a major assault on the Post of England.”
John Buck nodded in agreement. “He’s right, my Lord. The Post of England is sorely undermanned, and the Muslims are concentrating still more fire power there. We should set up a mobile reserve of knights from several of the larger langues. They can be sent to any post that needs reinforcement at the moment. Also, I fear there may be spies in our city, for the Turk seems to be well aware of the disposition of our troops and the construction of our walls. They are concentrating their fire and assaults on our weakest posts.”
Before the Grand Master could address the issue, and as if Buck’s words needed affirmation, the three men watch in horror as the Tower of the Church of
St. John disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust. The stone walls collapsed, and the roof fell into the ruined structure. The first shot had weakened the walls, and three more cannonballs had impacted nearly simultaneously to finish off the weakened structure. The sound reached the three men a second after their eyes recorded the devastation of the cannonade.
“Sweet Jesus!” said Docwra.
“Mon Dieu!” said Philippe.
“Merde!” said John Buck.
Philippe turned to Docwra and said, “How many knights did we have stationed in the Church tower?”
“Three, my Lord.”
“Get there, Thomas. See to them, if they survived. We can’t afford such losses so early on. John, set up another observation post in another tower. But, see that it is kept completely secret. Use no bell or light signals. Have a runner deliver all messages to me directly. That was too determined an attack for such an innocent structure. The spies here must have informed the Turkish swine that we were using the church tower for an observation post. By God, I will make them suffer when I find out who has betrayed us! Get some of the knights on the job. We must find out who and how they are getting messages to the Turk.”
Apella Renato had not slept in three days. The casualties were increasing daily, overwhelming him with his duties. Melina had been a godsend. She moved through the hospital ward as if she were possessed. She was able to tend to her babies, and then return to work the minute they were fed and asleep again. Renato insisted that she eat regularly, even though nobody else had time for meals. “You must keep nourished, Melina. The babies need your milk, and if you should go dry, they’ll surely die. Keep eating. Take the time. I do not want their deaths on my conscience for working you too hard.”
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