Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  From his position in the front ranks, Mustapha Pasha saw the blockade at the breach and shouted his fury. He exhorted his men to press forward, even as they were sprayed with shot and arrows from the walls. Suddenly, the Bunchuk appeared on a rampart. There, in the early light, was the standard of the Sultan, himself; for from this standard waved the seven black horses’ tails. The ringing of its little bells was drowned out by the melee, but the sight of the tails and the golden crescent of Islam gave heart to the attacking Turks. The rush forward began again.

  Mustapha was carried onward by the crush of soldiers. So fierce was the attack that those who tried to retreat in the face of the guns had no choice but to move ahead.

  Again and again, the Turks tried to force their huge army into the city, but the strategy of the knights was working too well. They pushed the advance soldiers back into the hole and effectively blocked the entry into their city with the living bodies of the enemy.

  Gabriele Tadini fought viciously in the front line of knights, slashing away with abandon. He was furious that the Turks had blown a hole in his wall; that they dared to escape his countermeasures. It was personal, and Tadini would avenge it here on the forefront of the ramparts.

  At Tadini’s side stood Michel d’Argillemont, head of the knights’ fleet, now caught up in the fighting with all the other knights. It was a welcome change from the inactivity on board his cloistered galleys. He pushed forward with his pike, swinging it in wide arcs and slashing away at the enemy. In one particularly forceful swing, he followed through too hard and lost his balance. As the point of his sword swung up, he nearly impaled Tadini, who was fighting shoulder to shoulder with him.

  “Hiens!” Tadini shouted at Michel. “Over there! They are the enemy!” His smile lost beneath his steel visor, he moved forward another step, knocking a young Janissary to his knees and then splitting the man’s skull directly down the middle with the sharp edge of his heavy sword. He looked to his right and was about to protest again in jest when he saw Michel fall to his knees. Tadini stepped forward, putting his own body in front of a Turk moving in for the kill. The scimitar slashed down and across Tadini’s breastplate, tearing his cloak and scratching the metal. Before the Turk could strike or thrust again, Tadini stepped forward, stomping his right foot as he drove his sword straight from the hip, skewering the soldier through the chest with a thrust more like a foil than a broadsword. As the Janissary fell, he grasped at the blade still protruding from his ribs. Tadini had to use his boot to push the man off and retrieve his weapon.

  Another knight stepped up to the front line, blocking Tadini from further attack. Michel was still on his knees, struggling with something in his helmet. Tadini reached down and grabbed him by the cloak. When he had pulled Michel to his feet, he saw the wound. An arrow had pierced the inside corner of the left eye and had exited through the left temple, where it protruded though the knight’s helmet.

  “Dio mio!” Tadini said, as he dragged his wounded friend to the rear ranks. Once out of immediate danger from attack, he lowered Michel to the ground and knelt beside him. Michel was becoming rapidly incoherent.

  “Can you walk?” Tadini shouted. Michel did not answer. “Do you hear me? Can you walk?” Again no response. Tadini sheathed his sword and lifted Michel’s body by one arm. He pulled the man over his shoulder and slung the body over his back, grabbing the two thighs in his arms. He ran through the streets of the Merchant’s Quarter, and made his way to the Collachio. Turing into the Street of the Knights, he moved as fast as the heavy weight would allow him and climbed the stairs to the hospital.

  Renato was working on the wounded already brought in from the battle at the Bastion of England. He didn’t look up when Tadini shouted to him. Tadini gently put Michel’s body on an unused operating table and called to Melina. She was wrapping bandages about the head of a wounded knight who lay upon the floor. She finished and went over to Tadini. She knew him well, for Tadini had often visited the hospital in search of Jean, who had become his close friend. Tadini had stayed many a night to help out when he was needed there, and had grown very fond of Melina. He never missed the opportunity to make veiled comments about the poorly kept secret of Jean’s and Melina’s little family.

  Melina reached the table and nodded to Tadini. “Who is it, Gabriele?” She looked down and said, “Oh, dear God! Not Michel.” Then, when Michel in his pain and delirium turned his head in her direction, she saw the arrow feathers protruding from his eye. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she was unable to stifle the cry that rose in her throat. “Oh. Dear God!” she said again. She touched Tadini on the arm and said, “Go back to your post, Gabriele. I’ll get Doctor Renato, and we’ll take care of Michel.”

  Tadini touched her hand and walked quickly out of the hospital.

  Philippe’s eyes burned as he slashed his way into the enemy. At fifty-eight, he was the oldest man fighting in the field. But, his age belied the physical man. Years of battle and training had kept him as fit as any younger man. With his strong arms and chest, he slashed and drove the heavy weapon through dozens of unfortunate Turks that afternoon.

  Henry Mansell stood behind Philippe, and to his left. He kept just enough distance to stay out of the way of the powerful sword strokes, but close enough to protect his master’s back. Mansell held the banner of the Crucifixion high above the heads of the knights. At its tip, the wooden pole was sheathed in brass and sharpened to a point. If the need arose, Mansell could protect the Grand Master using the standard as a lance. He held the standard in his left hand, while in his right he carried his own unsheathed broadsword. The years he had spent as standard bearer had given him enormous strength in his shoulders and arms. It was nothing for him to spend hour after hour in battle or on parade holding both his heavy weapon and the Holy Banner of the Crucifixion.

  Philippe moved a step forward as his brothers-in-arms advanced yet another foot against the incoming tide of Turks. One Janissary moved in under Philippe’s upraised sword, hoping to gain safety by entering inside the killing perimeter of the sword’s reach. He thrust his scimitar at Philippe’s neck, trying for a skewer between the breastplate and the visor of the helmet. Philippe parried the thrust with his chain-mailed hand and, closing the distance, brought the shaft of his sword down upon the helmet of the Janissary. Though still conscious, the man was stunned enough to stagger for a second, dropping his guard long enough to regain his balance. Before he could recover for a second attack, Philippe raised his heavy sword from its place directly in front of his chest, up and over his left shoulder. With a downward, backhanded sweep of the blade—now notched from impacts with other blades, and running with blood and dirt—he cut through the right collarbone of the young soldier, through the chest, and out under the left armpit.

  The man looked into the slit in Philippe’s visor as he fell backwards from the impact. Before he could focus on the two cold eyes staring back at him, he collapsed in a pile of disconnected parts, like a child’s doll ripped to pieces in a temper tantrum.

  Philippe recovered his stance, and moved forward another six inches.

  Mustapha Pasha felt the mass of his army slow, then waver. The crush of bodies impeded its own movement forward. Mustapha shouted again and again for his men to advance. He raised his scimitar and struck at his own troops with the side of the blade. He cursed and reviled them as cowards, but still the momentum stalled.

  For two more hours the battle raged. Tears of frustration ran down the Pasha’s cheeks as he tried to make his way to the breach in the wall. He saw the Sultan’s Bunchuk waver on the rampart and suddenly disappear from sight. As he moved closer to the breach, pushing and raging at his men, he could see the tall knight with the gray beard and long, gray hair. Though he had never seen or met him, he knew this must be the infamous Grand Master, de L’Isle Adam. Then, he saw the great banner waving in the air, Christ on the cross, filling the space behind the Grand Master, and he knew he was right. How foolish, he thought, to expose the lead
er to injury or death on the front line of the fight. He would never take such a chance with the Sultan.

  Mustapha charged ahead, knocking his own men to the ground, striking them with his fists to get to the fight. He would face this gray old man and cut him to pieces there on the bastion. Nothing would stop him. With their leader gone, the knights would crumble and surrender the fortress to the Sultan.

  Philippe had fought for two hours without let-up. The strategy was working, the knights plugging the gap in the walls with their bodies and their swords. The Muslims were falling away, the attack losing its momentum. His muscles ached, and he felt weak from dehydration and constant exertion. But still he pressed on.

  As he fought, Philippe kept an eye on the soldiers beyond the breach, trying to assess the strength and determination of the attack. He could see the ditches filling with the bodies of the men cut down by his marksmen on the parapets and the walls. For every knight he had lost this day, there must be hundreds of Turks lying dead or wounded. As he scanned the field, he saw a figure moving counter to the retreating mob. While the mass of the army was in a slow, disorganized retreat, one man was pressing forward, his scimitar waving in the air. The noise of the battle was so great that Philippe’s ears could discern nothing, but he saw the huge mustached man screaming and raging as he pushed frantically forward. His turban had been lost and his uniform was covered in blood and dirt. As the man reached the bastion, Philippe stepped forward to face the charge. Their eyes locked, and the man stood facing Philippe for the briefest moment.

  Suddenly, the knights surged forward, an unstoppable wall of armor bristling with swords. Even Philippe was surprised by the strength of the attack after so many hours of fighting. It was as if they wanted it over now. This very minute. They would not tolerate another Muslim within their city. The assault was so fierce that the Turks fell back at once. The force of the knights’ thrust pushed the Turks from the breach, and a general panic spread through the Turkish line. While isolated Janissaries tried to continue their attack, the tide of men began to flow backwards from the walls. They slid down the sloping embankment, stumbling and falling over the bodies of their comrades, living and dead.

  Mustapha found himself caught in the retreating crush and thrashed to break free. He pushed and swung his scimitar, trying for a chance to get to the Grand Master. But he was helpless. The throng pressed close about him, forcing him backwards down from the breach. At times he was lifted from his feet. He cursed and struck out at his men, but it was no use. He waved his sword in the air as he watched the figure of his enemy recede in the distance. Finally, he gave up his struggle.

  For his part, Philippe did not have the luxury of watching the departure of the Agha. He faced still another attack, and cut another young Janissary from the fragile tether of life.

  As the knights watched the armies of the Sultan retreat to their camps, they did not cheer. No swords were raised in victory. The wall of men stood facing the outer perimeters, swords at their sides. To the few Turks still able to see them, it was a chilling vision. The knights were a physical part of the stone walls. Seeing them there like that, the ordinary soldiers began to doubt that they could ever move them from their fortress.

  The silent knights looked out over the ditches. As far as their vision could penetrate the coming darkness, they saw tens of thousands of soldiers waiting their turn to storm the city. There seemed no end of Turkish soldiers to replace the ones the knights had killed in this first assault.

  Philippe moved back from the breach and turned to give orders to Mansell to oversee the repairs to the damaged wall. He could see his banner gently flowing in the breeze a few yards behind the knights. As a path cleared for him, he saw that it was not Henry holding the staff, but another knight of the French langue. At his feet lay Henry Mansell, an arrow protruding from the very center of his chest. A brother knight held Mansell in his arms, while another tried to remove the arrow. But, the armor plate held the wooden shaft tightly in its metal grasp. Philippe knelt down beside his lifelong friend and reached out to him. “Henry. Oh, Henry,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord. He is dead,” said the knight who held Mansell’s body.

  Philippe touched Mansell’s forehead. Then his chest. Then his left and his right shoulders. “Nominae Patria, Filia, Spiritus Sanctus. Amen. Au revoir, Henri, mon cher vieux ami.”

  Philippe rose and began the long walk back to his palace. As his knights watched him go, he seemed suddenly older and smaller. His shoulders sagged and his head was slightly bowed. The spring in his step and the proud carriage by which they all knew him had somehow slipped away. And this, they thought, after a day of victory.

  Suleiman watched the attack from the vantage point of his horse. Ibrahim was at his side. The small Janissary guard was deployed in a crescent around the Sultan, and all watched the battle in silence. The green banner of the Prophet sagged in the stillness of dusk, a backdrop to the Sultan’s unfolding drama.

  When the fighting was over, Suleiman stayed on his horse. He watched as his troops retreated over their hard-won terrain. They crossed the ditches and the escarpment, leaving the bodies of the wounded and the dead in their paths. Here and there, a soldier carried a comrade or helped a wounded man back to the lines. But, the overwhelming picture before the Sultan was that of an army, dead and dying, in a wretched grave dug to protect the walls of this hateful citadel.

  Soon the troops reached the safety of their lines. The harassing musket fire slowed, and then stopped as the last of the Turks moved out of range. A silence permeated the air. After the hours of noise and chaos, the absence of sound was alarming. Not even the birds sang. In the silence, Suleiman was keenly aware of the movement of the fabric of his men’s uniforms, the soft rattle of their weapons against armor as they walked and staggered back to their camps. The smell of gun smoke and burnt flesh drifted into his nose. He saw the looks on their faces. The fury and the hopefulness of the initial assault had been replaced by no expressions at all. Where he had expected to see pain and disappointment, he saw nothing.

  The Sultan took a deep breath. He looked right past Ibrahim and turned his brown stallion west to his camp on Mount Saint Stephen. He thought of how bravely his army had fought; how many young lives were lost that day; how much pain his people had suffered at the hands of the knights. And he wondered what price he—his army—would pay for taking this wretched island.

  Ibrahim followed behind, leaving his master alone with his thoughts.

  Later, as darkness covered the no-man’s land between the armies, the soldiers on both sides of the walls began the process of healing their wounds and burying their dead. The Turks lost more than two thousand brave soldiers in the field that day. The knights lost Henry Mansell and Commander Gabriel de Pommerols. Michel d’Argillemont died of his terrible wound without ever regaining consciousness. Nobody had counted the number of dead and wounded Rhodians and mercenaries.

  For hours, in the ditches, the Turkish wounded lay crying and calling for help. Their voices reached out to the ears of both armies. Just after midnight, Philippe sent a party of knights to violate the most basic rule of warfare that had guided soldiers since war had begun. The knights went out into the fields, and with swords and pikes, moved among the wounded, executing them one by one. The knights wandered about in slow motion, stopping only long enough to pick out the wounded from among the dead. Here and there they poked and prodded with the sharp steel of their lances and swords. Then, with neither anger nor remorse, but with cold deliberation, they ran their swords straight in between the ribs nearest the breast bone. Withdrawing the swords from the chests of the Turks, the knights wandered on again to find another soldier who failed to die in the battle. Not a man was spared. Not a prisoner taken. For all the remaining hours of darkness, a savage war was waged in total silence.

  At dawn, the knights walked back in through the St. John’s Gate and across the city to the Collachio. They returned to their Inns, where t
hey put away their bloodied weapons and changed into their clean scarlet capes with the white cross of St. John. Then they met at the chapel as the bells rang for Matins.

  Rhodes

  September, 1522

  Suleiman sat in his tent in silence. His face was lined and pale, for in spite of the fierce summer heat, the Sultan had spent much of his time under the cover of his battle pavilion. Like Xerxes at Salamis, his own hero of two thousand years earlier, Suleiman ordered a raised platform built on the hillside west of the city. His throne was set in place, his Viziers and advisers surrounding him as he watched the progress of the battle from a safe distance. And, like Xerxes before him, the Sultan’s heart ached at the carnage he saw unfolding in the field.

  After more than eight weeks of siege, the bodies of his armies now nearly filled the ditches at the southern bastions of the fortress. In the summer heat, the stench was intolerable. Flies swarmed over the swollen corpses. The soothing sea breezes of the early fall were replaced by nauseating smells driven back into the faces of the Turks. Soon diseases spread among the men and the merchant camp followers.

  And still, not a single Turkish soldier had set a foot inside the city of the knights.

  Suleiman sighed deeply, staring into the closed space of his tent. The servants had been dismissed, and the Sultan waited for a few moments before beginning the Divan. All of the Sultan’s commanding officers, Piri Pasha, Mustapha Pasha, Bali Agha, Achmed Agha, Ayas Agha, and Qasim Pasha, sat in a crescent around him. All immobile, impassive. Ibrahim sat to the Sultan’s right, facing the generals. Several of the Aghas wondered at Ibrahim’s position at the right hand of the Sultan. None said anything aloud.

  Suleiman wondered who among these men would serve him best. Piri Pasha was still his Grand Vizier, but clearly because of his lack of enthusiasm for the battle, his usefulness was waning. Ibrahim had been Suleiman’s loyal friend and servant for nearly a decade, but there was much resistance in the court to any further elevation of his rank. And as for the rest of the Aghas, what of them? They fought among themselves like children. They sought power and riches. Though they served the Sultan today, what would they do if their position was suddenly threatened?