Melina worked as best she could, but she was terrified for Jean. She knew that the Grand Master used him to plug every dangerous hole in the battle line, and that Jean had not rested since the battle had begun so many hours before. She kept glancing from her work toward the entryway, hoping that he would rush in to see her; dreading that he might be carried in wounded or.…She could not finish the thought. Her mind closed itself to the possibility that her great knight could die.
In the afternoon, she had still not seen him. She questioned the wounded who could speak, and several had told her that Jean was fighting near Aragon, where the battle was at its fiercest. She worried all the more, but at least he had been seen alive, still fighting.
Finally, Melina could stand it no longer. She finished the dressing she was applying to the severed hand of a mercenary. When the dressing was tight and it seemed the bleeding had slowed sufficiently, she grabbed some stale bread and a skin of water. She ran down the steps of the hospital, hurried through the Street of the Knights, and out of the Collachio. Running through the rubble and between the ruined houses, she made her way to the Post of Aragon. When she turned the corner and mounted the wooden ladder, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The once-strong bastion was now barely a ruin. The walls had crumbled, and the knights were locked in a sea of entangled bodies struggling to force back the invading tide of Turks and secure the breach.
Melina climbed up on the flat stones of the walls, now littered with the debris of battle as well as the debris of death. Bodies and limbs were strewn about so that there was hardly a place to stand in safety. Knights continued to fight off the last remaining Janissaries, struggling for possession of the breach. The last of the Sultan’s ferocious troops would not yield their ground, even as their brothers retreated before the oncoming darkness. The sun had already set behind the western walls of the fortress, and the Janissaries, locked in combat, were back-lit by evening glow. The ferocity of the fighting was hardly believable after so many long hours. But, neither side could find it in themselves to yield the hard-contested ground.
Melina protected herself as best she could as she searched for Jean. Now, she was determined to find him alive and fighting, or find his wounded body on the ground. She moved up and down the walls until, after many minutes of danger and frustration, she saw the silhouette of the banner of the Grand Master flowing in the fading light. She knew Jean would be close by.
She pressed on, and there he was. His unmistakable figure, so familiar in every aspect, was engaged in a terrible fight. The Grand Master was to his right, preparing for another threat from the foreground. Jean was about to parry a sword stoke, protecting Philippe, who never saw the attack on his flank. But, though Melina could not discern in her conscious what was wrong, she knew in her soul that Jean was in danger. She could not comprehend that he held his sword in the wrong hand. She could see that his right hand was badly injured. She saw only the awkwardness of his defense as the two blue-uniformed Janissaries plunged forward. One drove his sword directly into Jean’s exposed neck, while the other slashed across his outstretched left arm. The only protection Jean could offer, a left-handed parry, had failed. Melina watched as Jean slipped slowly to the ground.
That he was dead was clear. The Janissaries immediately ignored the fallen knight and moved on to other targets.
Melina did not rush to Jean’s side. She did not cry out. She did not scream. She only stood there, staring at the fallen body of her lover, the father of her twins. After several minutes, ignoring the knights fighting all around her, she walked slowly to Jean’s side. She knelt down in the blood that spilled from his neck and his partially severed left arm, and looked into his eyes through the raised visor. There was recognition in his eyes, and a trace of a smile that curled the corners of his mouth. He opened his lips to speak, but there emerged only a red-frothed foam, and no sound. She looked again at his eyes, but no light shone back at her. She squeezed her own eyes shut for a second, then placed her thumb and forefinger on his lids and closed them.
Melina bent to Jean’s face and kissed him on his lips, which were still warm and wet from the exertion of moments before. When she rose, her eyes were dry and her face impassive. She uncurled the fingers of his clenched fist and removed the sword from his hand. When she stood, at last, her long gray dress was covered with Jean’s blood.
She turned from the battle and again, ignoring the knights, walked slowly from the parapet. She descended the wooden ladder, dragging the heavy broadsword at her side. She walked past the ruined streets without noticing anything, thinking only of her lover lying dead on the wall. As she turned into the Collachio, she increased her pace, so that by the time she reached the hospital she was running. Her long black hair flowed behind her. She raced up the wide outside stairs, and went directly into the huge hospital ward. She nodded to Hélène, who was busy in the ward, and without a word to anyone, opened the door to the room where her twins were waking up. She put the sword aside and picked the babies up in her arms. Now her tears began to flow, and the babies began to cry with her. She opened the top of her bodice, and removed her milk-swollen breasts one at a time. Then she curled the little girls into the crook of each arm and let them nurse.
She leaned back against the hard cold stone, closed her eyes, and let the tears flow as her milk flowed into the babies’ lips. She felt the hardness against her back, and thought of Jean lying against the hard cold stone of the battlement that rumbled with the barrage. As the babies nursed, she remembered every day of her life with Jean. Their meeting in the market. His coming past her house each day, hoping to see her. Their trip to Petaloudes. She tried to remember every moment. Every single day of their short lives together. She recalled the last time they had made love in this very room, and now wondered whether another angel was growing inside her womb.
When she finally looked down, she saw that the girls were fast asleep. Time was lost to her, and she had no idea how long she had been dreaming. She wiped the milk from her babies’ lips and placed them gently down into their bed. Then she tucked the babies snuggly in to their bed and tied the cords that closed her bodice. She leaned down and kissed them each again.
She closed the door and threw the latch shut, the first time she could recall locking the small room from the inside. Then she sat on the floor next to the sleeping twins. She took the pillow from her own bed, placed it lightly over the faces of her two baby girls, and pressed down.
After some time, she didn’t know how long, she removed the pillow and placed it under their heads. Then she took the clean white cape that Jean kept on a peg behind the oak door and covered their bodies.
Melina unlatched the door, and picked up Jean’s sword. She closed the door behind her to keep the sounds of pain and death out of the room of her little girls. Unseen by Hélène or the other busy workers, she left the hospital and walked slowly down the Street of the Knights, and out of the Collachio.
Melina climbed the stairs once more and stepped on to the battlefield atop the walls. She walked among knights even as they fought with the Janissaries, ignoring them all. She knelt again beside Jean’s body, and carefully undid the leather straps that held his armored breastplate. She strapped it onto her own body, and then removed his helmet as well. Though the helmet was far too big for her, her full head of hair filled the space and held it snuggly in place. She lowered the steel visor, still pungent with her dead lover’s breath. Then she stood again, holding the sword in front of her by its hilt, the blade pointing to the earth. With the cross of war in front of her, she murmured words of prayer in Latin and Hebrew for her fallen lover. Then, she turned the sword around and raised the blade high over her head. With the power of fury and little if any skill or grace, she waded into the Janissaries who stared at her with disbelief. Her small body smashed into the enemy, and in the first seconds of her vengeful attack, she slew three of the Turkish soldiers before they could react.
Covered now in the blood of both her lover and hi
s killers, she turned her wrath on the next in line. Before her sword could fall again, a scimitar appeared before her eyes, like a specter, hanging free in the air. A second later, the blade transected her neck. She dropped her heavy sword and, as she fell, her helmet tumbled from her head, bouncing across the stones. The Janissaries watched her shiny black curls float free and encircle her face as she fell. She toppled backwards from the blow and, slumped across the body of her lover, now growing cold in the late afternoon air.
The Janissaries backed away, terrified of an enemy whose women would fight to the death alongside their men. As these Janissaries followed the last of Bali Agha’s troops backing down from the walls, the light left the field and darkness closed over the dead bodies scattered all about the walls of Rhodes.
Rhodes
September 25th, 1522
The Aghas gathered in the Sultan’s tent. Mustapha Pasha had not had time to change into clean clothes. He stood before the Sultan with his head bowed, his face smeared with a brown dried crust, a mélange of blood and the dirt of Rhodes. A servant brought him a wet towel, with which he quickly wiped his face and hands. There was little he could do to improve the condition of his uniform without keeping the Sultan waiting longer than he dared.
The summons had come just as the Aghas returned to their camps from the battle. Couriers rushed to the serais of Bali Agha, Mustapha Pasha, Piri Pasha, Achmed Agha, Ayas Agha, and Qasim Pasha. All the generals stopped what they were doing, mounted their horses, and galloped to the tent of the Sultan. Ayas Agha, too, had been caught short, and showed up in his dirty battle gear, fresh with the blood of his enemy as well as that of his own men.
Suleiman sat upon his raised throne at the head of the tent. Ibrahim was standing at his side. The Aghas were bid by the household guard to stand before the Sultan. This, too, was a bad sign, because most of the meetings with the Sultan in the battlefield lately had been less formal. Usually, Suleiman reclined on a divan, and his generals and advisers were allowed to sit on their own divans.
The Aghas kept their eyes fixed upon the woven gilt carpet, fearing to attract Suleiman’s attention. It was a child’s ruse that would not work.
With slow and measured speech, Suleiman, his voice low, his eyes fixed on Mustapha Pasha, began, “You have deceived me, brother-in-law. No, rather, you have miscalculated badly, and that error has cost the lives of thousands of my soldiers. You promised me an early and easy victory over the Sons of Sheitan.” His voice rose, and his speech quickened. “You promised me the heads of the knights to decorate the walls of their fortress, but my men are rotting in the ditches; filling the ditches with their bodies and their blood!” Signs of rage appeared on Suleiman’s face, and Ibrahim squeezed his eyes against what he knew was coming next. “You are a traitor to your Sultan. You are a coward and a liar! You are…” he sputtered momentarily, “you are forthwith condemned to die for your treachery!” He turned to the Janissaries at the door and said, “Take him away. Hold him in chains until dawn, when I will arrange for his execution.”
Ibrahim looked at Suleiman out of the corner of his eye. He dared not show his horror at this terrible injustice. Mustapha Pasha was an absolutely fearless soldier who had served his Sultan without a thought for his own safety. Not only was he married to the Sultan’s eldest sister, he had been a lifelong close and loyal friend. Ibrahim could not believe his ears, nor could any of the Aghas.
The Janissaries rushed to surround Mustapha. Their haste was unnecessary. Mustapha never moved, nor did he protest. He removed his sword from his waistband and handed it to the Janissaries. With his head still bowed, he submitted to his master, and walked silently away with his jailers.
The only sound in the tent was the labored breathing of the Sultan, himself. He wiped a few flecks of spittle from his lips with a silk handkerchief and stuffed it back in the sleeve of his caftan. The Aghas remained silent, each wondering whose neck would become the next target for the executioner’s axe.
The blood of Selim courses through the veins of our Sultan, Bali Agha thought. May Allah have mercy upon us.
In the silence, Suleiman continued to brood. His anger was not yet cooled by the sentence he had so cruelly inflicted upon Mustapha. He was about to turn on Ayas Pasha, whose losses in the attack against Auvergne and Germany had been the greatest of the day.
Before the Sultan could speak, Piri Pasha stepped forward. The Janissaries braced. One of the young troops closest to Suleiman placed his hand on the hilt of his scimitar as Piri stepped closer to the Sultan. Piri looked directly into the eyes of the young soldier and scowled. He put his hand out, and wagged a chastising finger, as if scolding a presumptuous child.
The Janissary took his hand off the scimitar and returned to attention, eyes staring off into the unfocused distance. Piri took another step, so that he was now only six feet from the Sultan’s throne, and well in front of the other Aghas.
His voice was soft, the words slow and measured. There was unmistakable resolve in his tone and words. It was the voice Piri used when talking to his horse in the fury of battle, calming, reassuring, deliberate.
“Majesty, I beg you allow me these few words.” Piri knelt and pressed his head to the carpet. He did not move until Suleiman spoke.
“Very well.” The words were terse. Begrudgingly given.
Piri rose slowly, with dignity. He looked directly into the Sultan’s eyes, and began to plead the case for his old friend, Mustapha. “Majesty, all the people of the Ottoman Empire know Suleiman as Kanuni. The Lawgiver. You have made justice part of your empire. The people know that they can come to the Imperial Divan and expect a fair hearing. Always law and justice.”
Piri spoke evenly and without emotion. “Your Seraskier, your brother-in-law, your old friend, Mustapha Pasha, fought with all the valor and might that he possessed. If he erred, it was in the measurement of the knights’ determination and bravery. But that does not in any way diminish the bravery of Mustapha and his men. For two months now, they have fought and died for you. Mustapha has been there at the vanguard of every attack, every battle. He is always the first into the breach, and the last to leave the field. He stood here in his bloodied battle dress because he was still fighting when your summons called him to your tent. He continued to fight, even though the battle was lost, and all the rest of us had left the field.”
Suleiman stared at his Grand Vizier, but revealed nothing. Piri went on, his tone and pace unchanged. “To condemn this brave and valiant man to death because he lost the battle is a grave injustice. It does not befit Kanuni, the most just of the Sultans of the Osmanlis.”
In that one second, that moment it took to utter the words, Piri knew he had gone too far. Before he could regret the indiscretion, Suleiman screamed back at him. “Injustice! You dare speak to me of injustice? Guard! Take this man away. Let him join Mustapha Pasha in his cell, and they can die together on the morrow!”
Now the Aghas gasped aloud. They all looked up to see the Sultan’s face. Even Ibrahim could not take his eyes from Suleiman’s. Piri Pasha? He would execute Piri Pasha? Ibrahim wondered. And if Piri Pasha, then anyone can perish today!
Piri remained absolutely calm. Piri had survived eight years with Selim. There was little that frightened him now. I have lived a decade longer than I thought I would. I have spoken my truth. If I must die now, I have, at least, served two Sultans well, he thought. Who else on God’s earth can say that?
Suleiman turned back to the Aghas, as Piri was led quietly away by the Janissaries. “Achmed Agha!”
Achmed stepped forward, awaiting his sentence of death.
“You are now the Seraskier of all my armies. You will be Commander-in-Chief. Do not fail me.” Suleiman’s black eyes stared at his new commander, and the threat was audible in his words.
“Yes, Majesty. Thank you,” was all that Achmed could say. Already, his mind swam with the prospect of how to reverse the defeats the knights had inflicted upon the Sultan’s armies. How could he prev
ail, and preserve his own life? It was clear that the penalty for failure was death, either on the battlefield or at the hands of the Sultan. Could the knights be defeated? Was it possible that the Sultan’s tens of thousands could not overcome the knights’ hundreds? Achmed bowed and moved back to his place. Silence again filled the room.
Then, “Ayas Pasha!”
Ayas stepped forward, his eyes cast down. He knew, without doubt, his fate. His army suffered the greatest losses of the day in the battle for Auvergne and Germany. He would pay the penalty with his life.
“I have not yet determined the punishment for your inadequacy as a general. You will be placed in chains and held until I make up my mind. Take him away!”
Only Ibrahim, Bali Agha, Qasim, and Achmed remained in the room. But, the four men had each noticed the slightest change in the Sultan’s mien. The very act of condemning the Grand Vizier and Mustapha to death seemed to have taken some of the fire from his rage. He appeared slightly calmer now, and the redness no longer suffused his face. The Sultan breathed easier, the tension in the room lessened. It seemed that, at last, the executions would end, and the remaining Aghas could get back to their war.
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