Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  But, with what? Suleiman had removed his most experienced and bravest generals from the field. What would their dismissal do to the morale of the already demoralized troops?

  Bali Agha, Suleiman’s “Raging Lion,” stepped forward. His eyes begged to be recognized. Suleiman nodded, and the Agha knelt in front of the throne. He slowly drew his scimitar, catching the attention of the Janissaries on guard on either side of the Sultan. They drew their weapons and placed themselves between Bali Agha and the Sultan, their blades just inches from Bali Agha’s throat.

  Bali Agha ignored them entirely. He balanced his scimitar across the open upturned palms of his two hands. He held it out before him, and placed it on the carpet at Suleiman’s feet. At a hand signal from the Sultan, the Janissaries withdrew. Bali Agha knelt, pressing his head to the floor, exposing the back of his neck. “Majesty, take my head here and now, with my own sword, if you must. But, as your loyal servant all these years, as the leader of your own Janissaries, the Sons of the Sultan, I must speak my truth. My body may one day lie with my brothers in the ditches around the fortress of Rhodes. So be it. Or I may die at the hands of your executioner. So be it, too. But, Majesty, do not do this terrible thing. Be Kanuni. Mustapha Pasha, Piri Pasha, Ayas Pasha; these men are the best we have. They are loyal. They are courageous. And they will die willingly to advance your Majesty’s cause.

  “Their deaths can only give comfort to the knights—may Allah curse them. The Grand Master will rejoice and celebrate at the news, when he hears of the deaths of these three generals. And, he will have good cause to celebrate, for we will have killed our most able leadership, and your most loyal servants. We will have done what the knights with their broadswords could not do.”

  Suleiman did not speak. Ibrahim stared at Bali Agha, marveling at the bravery of this man, still kneeling before the Sultan, his white neck exposed to the sword. Qasim Pasha, another trusted officer, took a step forward and asked permission to speak. Suleiman nodded.

  “Majesty, Bali Agha has spoken from his heart, and indeed he has risked his head in doing so. I feel ashamed that it has taken me so long to speak my own heart’s truth. But, I must agree. If for no other reason, I beg your Majesty spare the lives of your generals, only to prevent our helping the knights. Rhodes will fall to us one day, my Lord. But, we will need all the help that Allah and His Prophet—may sunshine warm his grave—can give us. With the Aghas now in chains, even Allah may not wish to help us in our jihad.”

  Qasim lowered his head and walked backwards to his place.

  Bali Agha rose and resheathed his sword. Then, he, too, backed into his place next to Qasim.

  Suleiman looked at Achmed Agha, who was standing in front of the others. “And you, my Seraskier?”

  “Majesty, I cannot say it better than Bali Agha and Qasim have already said. I am a wretched coward who remained silent while my brother Aghas were marched off to their deaths. I beg of you, please, be merciful as Allah is merciful. Be just as Allah is just. Do not give aid to the Kuffar. All your Aghas serve you well. No Sultan ever lived who had more loyal servants than they. Restore them to their posts. I have no need to be the Commander-in-Chief. I will gladly return to my troops and resume my normal duties.”

  Suleiman did not respond to the pleas of the remaining Aghas. He commanded, “Return to your posts, and prepare a plan for the next assault.”

  The Aghas were taken by surprise. They had expected, perhaps, to join the others in the death cells, but not to be ignored. They bowed and backed through the doorway of the tent. When they were gone, Suleiman dismissed his guard. He motioned to Ibrahim, and the two left the serai, walking into the cool air together.

  They found an open place above the sea, facing the north, away from the walls of Rhodes. The grass was just turning brown, and the seas were in a constant state of white froth and spume. Autumn was surely giving way to the coming of winter. The two men sat nearly shoulder to shoulder, out of the wind in the shelter of a large tree, looking out over the water. Ibrahim realized how long it had been since the fortress and the war were not in his view. They sat together there, the two old friends, and smelled the fresh air. The onshore winds blew the stink of the rotting corpses back toward Rhodes, away from the promontory. The Sultan and his friend took long deep breaths of the clean air. Neither spoke for what seemed like hours. Finally, the Sultan, now rid of the anger and frustration of the morning, said, “So, what am I to do now?”

  Suleiman and Ibrahim left their quiet vigil by the water and walked back to join the Faithful for prayers. They knelt together on the prayer mats, side by side, and faced toward Mecca far across the water. When they had finished, Suleiman led the way back to his tent, and reclined on his divan. “So? Now we have some decisions to make. First of all, there is Mustapha.”

  Ibrahim had no doubt as to what he must tell the Sultan. He could not hide behind his friendship. If he were ever to rise to higher power than that of the Sultan’s boyhood friend, he would have to speak truthfully. “My Lord, I think you know the truth. Mustapha is, if nothing else, the most courageous of your Aghas. He would slay the enemy by himself if he had to. His error was in his zeal and his confidence that he could win the battle. But, to die for this…?” Ibrahim held his palms upward with the question.

  “You’re right, of course,” Suleiman replied. “This is not a capital offense. But, having been sentenced to death by me, I think he will have lost the energy and some of the loyalty that he once had. We will demote him.” Then, he added with a little laugh, “I’m going to hear more of this, mark my word. He is, after all, still my brother-in-law, and my sister will not take this lightly. So, what shall become of him?”

  “Perhaps you can make him governor of some far-off place? Promote him out of your sight. Far enough to be away from your Majesty for extended periods of time?”

  “Mmmmm…Egypt? There’s always trouble there to keep him busy. And he would be only slightly disgraced. Yes, let him stew a bit longer in his cell. Then have him quietly disappear to his new post. I want no demonstrations of loyalty by his troops. He will disappear, and a new Agha will appear.”

  “I will see to it. And, Piri Pasha?”

  “Of course I will not kill Piri Pasha. Free him at once. Let him return to his old post. He will bear me no grudge for my anger. He survived Selim, his skin must be very tough by now.”

  “Yes, Majesty. I will see to that as well. And Ayas Pasha?”

  “Yes, yes,” Suleiman said, wearily waiving his hand in dismissal, “Ayas, too. He shall lead the troops as before.”

  Ibrahim bowed his head in response and waited. Suleiman had much more on his mind.

  “I think that the knights underestimate my determination to stay and fight until I have attained my goal. Well, if that is the case, they have erred.”

  Suleiman paced the floor for several minutes. He sat down again, and said, “Have my architects make the necessary preparations to build a grand stone pavilion. Let it be in sight of the fortress. I want the knights and my own troops to see that I have made a permanent dwelling place. Send to Syria and Anatolia for more soldiers to fight here, in this place, for this battle. Let it be known by everyone that I am here to stay until all the knights are dead and the island is mine.”

  “I will, my Lord.”

  When Ibrahim returned from his mission, Suleiman motioned him to the divan. He sent his servants for more food. Clean dishes were brought and set out. The informality of the setting indicated to Ibrahim that Suleiman was ready to seek advice.

  “In one moment,” Suleiman said, “my Aghas are preparing for the Day of Reckoning. The next, they are back to their stations as if nothing has happened.”

  Ibrahim was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Well, not quite, Majesty. Your words can undo what you have done. It is but a whisper that can separate a man from his life. And, a second whisper can restore it. Three lives were condemned last night. This morning three lives were restored. Bali Agha and Qasim Pasha also
risked their lives last night. So much hangs on the words of the Sultan, Majesty; so much power in the breath of kings.”

  Rhodes

  October, 1522

  October 11th. At Italy, Provence, Aragon, and England, the breaches were now so great that the knights had been forced to withdraw to a position of safety inside the walls. In effect, the city was open. Where breaches had not yet been made, the Turkish miners had advanced completely under walls and emerged inside the city.

  The only thing keeping the Janissaries and the rest of the Sultan’s army from pouring into the great gaps was the fact that the towers and the high bastions were still standing. From their position, the knights could maintain a withering fire that created a curtain of death for any troops trying to enter.

  As the battle resumed, Achmed Agha forced his men forward into the breaches and the tunnels. The guns from Auvergne only slowed his men down, never completely stopping them. Gunners atop the St. John’s Gate fired into the trenches. The miners were partially shielded by the leather hides stretched over wooden frames to protect them. Still, the slaughter went on. The bodies of the Turkish dead filled the trenches as fast as their brothers could move them back, or cast them over the sides.

  Achmed Agha drove his Azab troops forward. As the men died by the hundreds, the Agha merely sent for more. It was like a giant army of ants pressing forward to gain an important prize. Unlike the knights, the Sultan, it seemed, would never run out of bodies.

  Tadini rarely left the field now. He seemed to be everywhere at once. He ordered his knights and the remaining slaves back again and again to rebuild the damaged walls. Some of the rubble could be moved to fill in other breaches. He even ordered the less-used towers to be torn down, and the stones used to fill critical holes in the defenses.

  But, as the major breaches widened, Tadini had to construct a strong, deep retrenchment—a wall inside a wall—enabling his men to control the breach, and requiring the Turks to build their own parapets in order to get into the city.

  At the Bastion of England, the battle was fierce. Tadini had not left the site for many hours. He fought with his knights to stem the in-rushing tide of Turkish soldiers, and moved from wall to impoverished wall to command the battle.

  Late in the morning, the Turkish line faltered. Masses of soldiers seemed to be retreating. The knights gathered at the inner retrenchment and peered through the small openings to assess the next move. Tadini pressed his forehead to the rock and searched the field. Most of the Turks were disappearing into the breach, forced back by the increasing fire from his towers.

  Suddenly, Tadini’s head snapped backwards, propelling him hard into the body of one of the knights. The two fell to the ground. As the knight rolled to free himself, he saw Tadini’s limp body slip to the ground. Blood was flowing from his right eye and a growing stain of red was spreading down from his right temple.

  A Turkish musketeer standing on the earthworks had propped his long-range weapon on a shooting stick and fired. The metal ball had scored a direct hit, entering Tadini’s right eye near the top of the nose, exiting through the right temple at the top of his ear. As though guided by God’s hand, the bullet had missed the brain, but took the sight of Gabriele’s right eye and knocked him unconscious. In this age, when an infected finger could escalate to death within a few days, there was little hope among his brothers that Tadini would survive his terrible wound. His bravery and expertise would be sorely missed by his brothers-at-arms.

  The knights carried Tadini from the field, through the Street of the Knights to the hospital. There, he lay, attended by Hélène and the few remaining doctors, unable to serve the Grand Master, while the battle for Rhodes raged on about him.

  October 27th. The Post of Auvergne.

  The man vaulted up the wooden ladder, rushing in a crouch to the wall. He could see the fires of the camp, and even make out figures in front of the tents. It was remarkable how orderly this encampment was; how clean and precise its arrangement after so many months of war and weather and death. He rushed to the wall, crossbow in his left hand, and the arrow already nocked and set. The trigger mechanism was cocked. He took a long breath, let it slowly out, and prepared for his shot. As the last of the air left his lungs, he would complete the increasing pressure on the trigger, and the shaft would fly into Ayas Pasha’s camp.

  The impact knocked the wind out of the man’s chest. He felt pain tear across his left shoulder as he crashed into the stones of the wall. Lights flashed before his eyes as his head struck the rock walk. Two gloved hands held the weapon tight against him.

  He stopped his struggling, and as he heard the knight call for help, he knew that it was over. This huge knight, who happened to be on the wall for God knows what reason, would keep him pinned there like a butterfly until more knights arrived.

  As the lantern’s light washed over the fallen man’s face, all three knights froze. The man in black slumped back to the ground in total surrender. The knight with the lantern let out his breath and gasped, “Mon Dieu!”

  By the time the knights entered the courtyard of the Palace of the Grand Master, the prisoner’s robe was torn and muddied. His hands were completely numb from the tight leather thong, and his face was abraded from stumbling into a wall. As he ascended the great staircase, he tripped so many times that he was finally lifted off the ground for the last six steps.

  When the knights entered the room without knocking, the Grand Master leaped to his feet. The prisoner was hurled into the room and fell to the floor. He landed on the stones, striking his forehead and his right shoulder.

  Philippe stared in utter disbelief as the spectacle before him. He bent slightly at the waist to make sure that he had not mistaken the face. Then, as he returned to his place behind the table, he spoke not a single word, merely shaking his head from side to side

  The knights held their positions while the guards remained at attention. The crumpled parchment was placed before the Grand Master, and the guard returned to his place. The room was silent except for the rasping breath of the prisoner. Philippe took up the parchment and held it in front of a candle. His eyes moved across the single page. As he read on, his eyes widened in disbelief. After each sentence he looked at the prisoner’s bowed head, then back to the parchment. When he finished reading, he threw the paper onto the table and stared.

  Finally, his words measured, his voice cold and hard, Philippe addressed the prisoner. “Explain this. Who wrote this message?”

  The prisoner moved his head, slowly raising his eyes to determine whether the Grand Master’s words were directed at him. Still, he did not answer.

  “Well?” Philippe asked shaking the parchment in the air.

  Silence.

  “Very well. Take him below. The rack will help him speak to us.”

  Philippe picked up the parchment and handed it to Antonio Bosio. Bosio read silently. When he finished, he reached out to return the parchment to Philippe. Philippe waved Bosio away. “Tell the Council its content, and then join me below.” Philippe strode from the room, leaving Bosio and the knights alone.

  As soon as the Grand Master strode from the room, Bosio sat down and read the paper once again. He addressed the knights, who remained standing at their places.

  “It is addressed to Ayas Pasha. The handwriting is unmistakable.” He turned the paper around and allowed each of the knights to see it. There were gasps of disbelief.

  Bosio continued. “The message is to be delivered to the Sultan. It tells him not to abandon the siege, but to press his attack with greater vigor. It says that our morale is low, and that there is dissent among our forces. That our people are at the edge of rebellion. He tells the Sultan it is unlikely we have the will to repulse one more general attack. That our powder and shot are almost exhausted. It says that if the Sultan were to present the Grand Master with almost any reasonable proposal for surrender, it would be accepted.”

  The knights waited in silence for Bosio to continue. There was
no more. Bosio placed the parchment carefully down on the table at the seat of the Grand Master. He motioned toward the door with his head, and the knights moved en masse to the lower chamber, to the prisoner waiting on the rack.

  The senior knights stood in a line against the damp stone walls of the torture chamber. There were no windows, the only light coming from the candles placed along the walls. The orange flickering threw a pattern of light across the room, mixing the shadows cast by the structure of the room’s only piece of furniture: the rack.

  The rough-hewn wood was stained and dark with the sweat and blood of its prior tenants. At one end, a huge cogged wheel stood attached to the main frame. Its spokes radiated from the circumference, and its axle was ratcheted with a metal hinge.

  The prisoner was stripped to the waist, shivering in the cold wet air. His wrists were separated now, each bound with a tight leather thong and stretched overhead to a wooden bar at the top end of the rack. His ankles were similarly bound, and fastened to a bar below his feet. In the middle of his body, an angle in the rack pressed upward into the small of his back, so that he lay like an inverted V on the instrument of torture.

  In spite of the cold and the shivering, sweat trickled down his body onto the floor. He strained to look up over his head and scan the upside-down faces of the knights. As his eyes moved around the room, he regained his orientation and identified each man, name by name. Finally, his gaze stopped at the foot of the rack, where he found himself staring into the eyes of the Grand Master.

  Philippe never took his gaze off the prisoner. “Who wrote the letter?” he asked in the same slow monotone.

  Silence.

  Philippe nodded to the man tending the wheel, all the while fixing his eyes on the prisoner. The man leaned on the long arm of the turning mechanism, and the wheel moved clockwise a few degrees. The thongs cut deeply into the prisoner’s ankles and wrists, and his arms and legs straightened under the strain. The force of the torque pulled the man’s back down into the angle of the bench, his spine pressed against the wood. The pressure was unrelenting, but the pain continued to escalate long after the ratchet had caught and the wheel ceased to turn.