Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  Hamon knelt down in the sand and moved Renato’s chin up a bit. “He was definitely hanged first. Look here, at these rope burns on the neck. And he lived long enough to sustain these purple bruises there, too,” he added, pointing to the discoloration in Renato’s neck. “From the rest of the bruising,” he pointed to the body parts, “I would say he was alive until the time he was quartered, poor man. Dear God, what an awful thing to do.”

  Suleiman turned to walk away. Piri and Ibrahim followed without another word. Hamon stood in his place and said, “Majesty.”

  Suleiman stopped, and turned to see what the doctor wanted. Hamon looked at his Sultan with a hint of pleading in his eyes. “Majesty, this man worked for us. For the Muslim armies of the Sultan. He was a doctor and a Jew. I feel a commitment to what he did on our behalf; a proper service and burial for him. Surely he deserves more for his suffering than to lie here in this strange place to be eaten by the crows?”

  Suleiman sighed, and said, “Doctor, I can understand how you feel. But, we do not have the time or the facilities to bury every soldier who dies in our cause,” and he pointed in the direction of the ditches now overflowing with Turkish corpses. “But in deference to the services you and your family perform for the Sultan, I will allow you a little time to say the appropriate prayers and arrange for his body to be properly wrapped and buried in a small grave. You may see to it now. Some of my guards will escort you back to the serai when you are done.” Hamon bowed his head, and remained in that position until the Sultan had left.

  Suleiman said a few words to Piri Pasha, who gave the orders to five of the Janissaries. Then, Suleiman, Piri Pasha, and Ibrahim walked back along the corridor of soldiers to their horses.

  Suleiman rode back to the tent on Mount Saint Stephen wondering about the siege he had started; weighing the cost in the lives of his loyal young army against the gain to the Empire. It troubled him deeply to sacrifice so many young men for this little island fortress. This is the burden of command, he thought, that will bear down on my soul for the rest of my life.

  When the Sultan was gone, Hamon supervised the wrapping of the body in a plain white shroud. After the soldiers dug a shallow grave, he stood by the body and looked out over the sea south and east, in the direction of Jerusalem. Among the noises of the cannons and the shaking of the earth, he began to recite the Kaddish—the Sanctification—a prayer recited for the dead.

  “Yis-gadal v’yis-kadash sh’mey raba, b’alma di v’ra hirutey…” Magnified and sanctified be God’s great name in the world which He has created according to his will…

  Hamon supervised the lowering of the body into the small grave, and threw a symbolic handful of dirt onto the white shrouded body. He stood over the hole in the ground as the soldiers shoveled the dirt back into the grave. When they were done, the soldiers picked up their shovels and returned to their duties.

  Hamon stood there for a moment, and said quietly, “Goodbye, Apella. God’s peace be with you.” Then, he looked to the horizon again, and said, “Shema Yisrael, Adonoi eloheynu, Adnoi echod.”

  September 23rd, 1522. Philippe called the meeting to order. The Piliers, ranking officers from each of the langues, were seated at the long oak table. Even Andrea d’Amaral was on time for this critical strategy session. The Servants-at-Arms formed a second circle around the table, standing behind their masters.

  Philippe looked weary as he began the session. Dark bags of loose skin hung beneath his eyes. His gray hair and beard served only to make him look old now, not distinguished and vibrant as they once did. He sat in a tall backed chair with leather padding, and leaned forward on his elbows. “Gentlemen, we have reason to believe that the Turks are preparing a major assault. The tactic has now changed, and we might be in for a general assault on several fronts at once.” He looked to Thomas Scheffield, his Seneschal, and said, “Thomas?” Then Philippe reclined in his seat.

  Thomas Sheffield, Commander of the Palace of the Grand Master, stood. “My Lords, there has been unprecedented activity in the Turkish lines. Troop movements and changes in the disposition of the artillery. Our sentries have reported a general shift of manpower away from the northern and western ramparts to the south and the southeast of the city. Though they have tried to conceal it, we can see that troops have massed in front of Aragon, England, Provence, and Italy. We have seen men moving in the night through the gardens outside the ditches, and concentrating to the south. There seems little question that the Sultan plans a general assault, so we must change our strategy in response. We don’t have enough manpower to plug gaps in all the locations at once, should their cannon and mines break through on several fronts.”

  Scheffield sat down, and John Buck stood up. “Our only hope of repelling a general assault is to be mobile. We must have our system of sentries and runners in place so that we can know where and when more knights are needed. If the Turks make a breakthrough in any point in the walls, they will pour into the city like a tide, and we will then have them at our backs as well as our front. We cannot possibly confront so many men with the numbers of knights and mercenaries we have left. So, it’s imperative that we continue to block each opening as it occurs, and repel each assault as it occurs.” Buck looked to Philippe for any additional comments. Philippe said nothing.

  Buck continued. “Gentlemen, this could be the decisive battle of the siege. I’ve heard that there is a great discontentment growing in the lines of the Sultan. His soldiers are unhappy and demoralized at the sight of the thousands of dead comrades lying in the ditches around our castle. And so they should be. If we can hold off this general assault, and continue to slaughter them with minimal loss on our side, it may turn the tide against them. Suleiman may find his men unwilling to fight. The great-grandfather retreated just before the bad weather in his assault forty years ago, and I expect Suleiman may do the same. The weather is just starting to deteriorate now, and will get worse in very short order. So, we must demoralize them with a resounding victory when the general assault comes. We will count upon Tadini’s men, and their newfound accuracy from the parapets, to send death down upon the Turks from the sky. The enfilade must not stop until the Turk is in full retreat, and then we must harry them in their rout. Any questions?”

  There were none. The somber faces spoke to the fact that the knights were all well aware of the critical nature of their condition. The coming battle could be the last of the siege.

  The knights rose at a signal of dismissal from Philippe and left the Palace of the Grand Master. They returned to their langues and briefed the men under their commands.

  Philippe remained alone, staring at the plans and the disposition of his men. As night approached, everyone in the city could hear the movement of the Sultan’s troops and his machines of war. There was no doubt that the dawn would bring another day in hell.

  September 24th, 1522. Nearly nine weeks of siege. The muezzin’s voice broke the still morning air before first light. Even as the soldiers of Islam spread their prayer mats on the grass and turned their bodies to face the southeast—to the holy city of Mecca—the Sultan’s artillery shattered the stillness. The sounds of the prayers mingled with voices of the cannon; the Faithful felt the earth shake beneath their knees as they asked Allah for his guidance and protection in the coming assault on the Infidel. There was the might of the cannons and the rumble of the earth as they spoke directly to God. Their song of faith and trust was backed by the accumulated might of their religion and their Sultan, Suleiman, the Shadow of God on Earth.

  The Sultan sat upon his raised platform, flanked by Ibrahim and Hamon. Hamon had waited quietly while Suleiman and his friend concluded their prayers. All the Aghas were already in the field, commanding their men and ordering the sequence of the attack. The target for the artillery that morning was the entire southern perimeter. Just as the knights had guessed, the cannons were massed to strike simultaneously at the ramparts and bastions of Aragon, England, Provence, and Italy. The walls and towers at I
taly were already a shambles. The rubble and debris were piled high, affording little protection.

  In the first hours of the day, the smoke and the noise literally deafened and blinded both the attackers and the defenders at once. Smoke choked both sides of the conflict; dust and smoke obscured any view of the battlefield. The knights behind their wall could scarcely determine from where the attack was coming. There were no intervals in the barrage of stone and iron missiles. A continuous stream of fire poured into the city and against the walls. The knights answered with their batteries. Their pre-aimed cannons still fired with maximum effect. But, powder and cannonballs were in short supply, so the artillerymen were very stingy in their response to the Turkish barrage.

  In spite of the massive reinforcements of the fortress, the Sultan’s cannons were finally overpowering the defenses of the city. While the knights could make temporary repairs with existing materials from the walls, the Turks had an almost endless chain of ships bringing ever more cannons and powder and shot. There was no limit to the reserves of Suleiman’s batteries.

  Suleiman watched with satisfaction as the walls of the city started to crumble under the combined effects of his mines and his artillery. Time had finally caught up with the defenders of Rhodes, and the neverending mining and artillery barrages overpowered the stone walls of the fortress. As the morning wind picked up and blew away some of the dust, Suleiman could see whole sections of the bastions and the walls come down. While the Post of Italy was already in ruins, the Sultan did not take his eyes off the Bastion of Aragon. For, there, he knew, was where the first wave of his Janissaries would mass. Led by their Seraskier, Bali Agha, his elite troops would pour into the city and decimate the small defending force of knights. That was the plan of the Sultan, and Allah would make it so.

  “Keep your eye on the walls there,” Suleiman said, pointing to his left at the walls of Aragon. “Though you cannot tell yet, as I hope the knights cannot tell either, the heaviest cannonade is directed just there, and that will be the first breach. When the cannons stop and the smoke clears, you will see a wave of blue uniforms pour into that breach, and return only when they are red with the blood of the knights.”

  Ibrahim and Hamon strained to see where Suleiman was pointing, but there was still too much smoke. Then, the wind increased and the cannons stopped, and the charging forces of Bali Agha filled what had been emptiness. Even from so far away, the observers could see the Raging Lion at the head of his troops, waving his scimitar and shouting for the advance. To the accompaniment of the drums and cymbals and trumpets, a thousand cries of “Allahu akbar” drifted across the fields of fire to the ears of the Sultan sitting on his throne.

  It took several minutes for the knights to respond. As the Janissaries scrambled over the rubble and the bodies of their brothers in the ditches, the knights sent word to their mobile troops. The few defenders were soon joined by hundreds more mercenaries and knights, who rallied at the Post of Aragon. The Rhodian men took up arms as well, grabbing at anything that could be used for a weapon. They, too, felt the rush of energy as the knights assembled in their battle capes. To the citizens of the city, the knights had begun to seem invincible as they drove back wave after wave of Turkish soldiers in the previous attacks. The stink of the rotting corpses in the ditches served only to verify their faith in the knights.

  Women rushed along the battlements carrying powder and shot. They brought water to the knights and helped move the wounded. While the explosions of the Turkish artillery rained down into the city, the revitalized citizens ignored the danger and supported the defenders.

  Opposite the walls of Aragon, Bali Agha surged forward at the head of his beloved Janissaries. As legend had decreed, his men did use the bodies of their brothers as stepping stones into the breach. Just before their advance, the Turkish artillery had finally opened a large hole in the Bastion of Aragon. “Forward!” screamed Bali Agha as the men slipped and scrambled up the sloping terrain. As they neared the walls, they encountered retrenchments that Tadini had constructed to slow their advance. A steep palisade confronted the Janissaries and further slowed them down.

  The knights rallied to Aragon, gunners and archers on the nearby rooftops and battlements opening fire on the Janissaries who were now entering their range. Again, as before, a murderous crossfire tore into Bali Agha’s men, and the Janissaries started to suffer terrible losses. But, none could stop to help their fallen comrades. Bali Agha had made it clear that every man’s sole duty was to reach the city and slay as many Christians as possible.

  Four Janissaries in the vanguard reached the walls and planted their standards. Among them was the four-tailed standard of Bali Agha. But, the Bunchuks with their black horses’ tails flew only briefly in the wind, and were soon cut down and trampled by the advancing knights.

  Hand-to-hand battle began along the walls of Aragon as the knights assembled. Quickly, they formed their wall of iron men: as always, immovable. Implacable. Their reputation was not lost on the Janissaries, who, brave as they were, had never before encountered a foe so determined, so skillful at close-in fighting. The Janissaries’ battle experience had often been against troops who broke and ran at the very sight of the Sultan’s army. They were not used to such an unflappable foe.

  The advance slowed, and Bali Agha began to rage at his men. He called them names. He swore, he sweated. He swung his scimitar wildly in the air to drive them forward. But, it was to little avail, for the fire pouring down upon them from the city was killing more soldiers than were reaching the walls.

  Once there, the Janissaries could not get or maintain a foothold. The knights formed their phalanx and beat back every advance with broadsword, ax and pike. Then, to add to the slaughter, from the left, the guns on the walls of Auvergne opened up upon Bali Agha’s forces.

  Suleiman watched the massive movement. From his perspective, when the conditions allowed, he could view whole sections of his army move forward, and then retreat before the withering fire and the hand-to-hand fighting with the knights. After two hours of back-and-forth movement, Suleiman could see his Janissaries make one last determined effort, surging forward onto the battlements of Aragon. The fighting was wild, and the knights rushed more reinforcements to the scene.

  The Grand Master was in every breach, in every parapet. To the Turks, it seemed that there must be a dozen gray-haired men upon the battlements that day, and a dozen banners of the Crucifixion. But, all were Philippe, rushing to where the battle raged against the knights, supporting his brave men with his presence and his sword. Toward the end of the morning, with no chance to rest, he arrived on the ramparts of Aragon, where the massive assault by Bali Agha was still contested.

  He called to Jean de Morelle, who was fighting fiercely to protect the Bastion. “Jean?” he called as the battle went on around them.

  “We have gained and lost this post today more times than I can count,” Jean shouted over the din. “They plant their standards, and we push them back. But, they’re moving more men into the breach, and I don’t know if we can hold them much longer.”

  “Hold them, Jean. Whatever the cost, hold them! I’ll help you all I can. I’ll send for Jacques de Bourbon, and have him make a surprise attack from the Turkish rear. He’ll split their forces.”

  “But, how….?” Jean never finished his question. He was suddenly attacked by two Janissaries at once. He turned back to his battle and lashed out with his heavy weapon. His sword slashed through the sword-arm of the man to his right, and in the follow-through, he backslashed the haft into the face of the other young man who had entered the space. As the man fell, Jean stabbed him in the neck, killing him on the spot. Then, he turned to where the Grand Master had been, but Philippe was gone. Jean took two deep breaths and rushed into the growing mass of Janissaries, slashing his way forward to wedge his shoulders against those of his brother knights.

  Jacques de Bourbon crawled through the tunnel directly beneath the Tower of Aragon, at the edge of the
Post of Auvergne. The tower had fallen to the Turks less than an hour ago, and the Grand Master had ordered Jacques to retake it. “Take a small band of your best men, whomever you need, and slip out of the city through one of Tadini’s tunnels. Attack them from the rear and fight your way back in.”

  For an hour, Jacques and his band of ten men crawled and choked and coughed in the darkness and the dust. They could feel the walls rumble as the Turkish cannon fire continued, trying to open still more breaches in the walls. The returning fire from the knights had silenced many of the Turkish positions, but now Jacques wished that they would stop, just for a while, before the damned tunnel collapsed in upon him. About halfway down the tunnel, Jacques felt a tremendous shudder beneath his feet as a Turkish cannon sent its massive stone ball into the walls. The earth shook harder than ever, and the walls began to collapse around his band of knights. “Forward!” he shouted to the men behind him. “Vite!Vite!”

  The earth and rocks began to rain down upon their backs as they rushed in a crouch from the blackness of the tunnel. Several of his men stumbled to their knees as they tripped over fallen rocks. They felt their way through the blackness, their torches extinguished by the debris. One hand on the sword hilt, the other in front of their heads, they moved like blind subterranean dwellers through the unstable hell of the tunnel. After another thirty minutes of choking and stumbling, they saw ahead of them the gray, smoke-filled battlefield outlined in the concealed opening to the tunnel. Jacques and his men emerged into the air to fight their way back up onto the ramparts.

  In a near frenzy now, Melina rushed through the choked ward, trying to be everywhere at once. The babies cried behind the closed door of her room, but she barely had time to tend to them. The ward was chaos. Since Doctor Renato had been executed, there was nobody left who worked with the speed and constancy that he could. They needed his direction and his energy. They needed his leadership. Morale in the hospital was at its lowest just when the doctors and their helpers were needed most. The other doctors and assistants were overwhelmed with the workload. Many of the wounded died from unintentional neglect. Most of the dead lay where they fell on the battlements, and some of the wounded were never carried to the hospital. Still, scores of soldiers and civilians arrived in the ward needing immediate care. Some did not receive it. Many lay on the broad staircase that led to the ward, placed there by others too harried and tired to bring them all the way into the ward. Several died on the staircase, neglected and alone.