Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  The prisoner screamed on the very first turn, and spittle accumulated at the corner of his mouth. Still he did not speak the required words.

  “Who wrote the letter?” Philippe repeated, nearly in a whisper now. When he received no reply, he nodded to the torturer again.

  Again the lever was moved, the wheel turned, the thongs tightened, the body stretched, and the ratchet set.

  Several of the younger knights looked down at their feet. This was the first time they had seen the rack in actual use, and the reality was far more fierce than the lighthearted banter of the stories told around the dinner tables of the Auberges.

  Again, a scream filled the small room and resounded off the walls. But, this time, there were words in the screams, though no one could understand their meaning. Philippe raised his head a fraction, and again met the eyes of the prisoner, who was gagging from the intense pain.

  Philippe nodded to the torturer, and the ratchet was released. The wheel moved back, and the thongs relaxed an inch. Now the prisoner was able to speak.

  “Who wrote the letter?” Philippe asked.

  The prisoner muttered three words. His voice was thin and his words garbled by his gasping. Philippe leaned forward, as did all the knights. Only the torturer kept his place at attention near the wheel.

  The prisoner licked his lips, for now his tongue was dry and his mouth the consistency of sand. It was all he could do to utter the words.

  Softly. Falteringly. The prisoner spoke the name again.

  The thongs were cut and blood seeped from beneath the leather still tied to his ankles and his wrists. Three guards pulled Blasco Diaz, Servant-at-Arms to Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral, from the rack and dragged him to his cell.

  Philippe and his knights returned to the Palace of Grand Master. They convened around the great oak table, awaiting in silence the arrival of d’Amaral.

  Four knights raced to the Inn of Castile where d’Amaral was known to be sleeping. Though most of the knights lived in their own homes outside the Auberges, d’Amaral’s house had been destroyed in the bombardment. Throughout the siege, he stayed in one of the small rooms in the Inn of Castile.

  The knights burst through the front door and ran up the one flight of stairs to the Chancellor’s room. The door was unlocked, and the four knights pounced upon the sleeping man. D’Amaral struggled at the attack, but in a few seconds he was pinioned beneath the strong arms of the knights. His sword and knife were kicked out of reach, and leather thongs tied his wrists.

  To their surprise, the Chancellor did not struggle once he saw who the men were. The knights released his feet, and d’Amaral was helped into his boots. Since the start of the siege, all the knights had slept in their clothes, so d’Amaral was spared the indignity of being dragged through the streets in his nightshirt. He was helped into his boots, his hands rebound, and was marched directly to the Palace of the Grand Master.

  Philippe and his knights sat without moving as d’Amaral was thrust into the room. A wooden chair had been placed between the table and the door. D’Amaral was roughly led to the chair and released. He stood facing the Grand Master. After a minute of silence, during which time the two men kept their eyes locked, Philippe said, “Unbind the Chancellor.”

  The guards hesitated and looked at the Grand Master for affirmation of what they thought was a mistake. “I said, unbind the Chancellor!”

  The guards stepped quickly to d’Amaral’s side and cut the leather thongs. D’Amaral removed the leather wristlets and dropped them to the floor without taking his eyes from the Grand Master’s. Slowly, he rubbed each wrist, and then sat down on the chair behind him. He sat straight in the chair, feet squarely on the floor. His head was erect, and never once did he take his eyes from Philippe.

  Philippe began without preamble. He spoke slowly in the same monotone that he had with the prisoner, Diaz. “Your Servant-at-Arms, Blasco Diaz, was caught tonight attempting to send this message into the camp of the Turks.” Philippe shoved the letter across the table, turning it around so that d’Amaral could read it. D’Amaral did not look down, but continued to stare at Philippe. Philippe went on, “Diaz confessed that he has sent many of these letters to the Turk, and that he was acting on your orders; that you wrote the letters in your own hand.” Still, there was no reaction by d’Amaral. The other knights were beginning to stir in their places, looking from Philippe to d’Amaral.

  “You are charged with treason. We shall gather the witnesses against you and convene a Military Tribunal at the earliest moment.” D’Amaral remained mute.

  “You will be taken under guard and confined in the Tower of St. Nicholas. Prepare your defense well, Chancellor, for if you are found guilty, you will, I assure you, hang.”

  Philippe waited two full minutes for d’Amaral to respond. During that time their eyes were locked, the hate between the two old colleagues palpable. When d’Amaral did not respond, Philippe waved his hand toward the door. The guards stepped forward, each holding fresh leather restraints in his hand. Philippe shook his head and nodded toward the door again.

  The guards moved to take d’Amaral by the elbows, but the Chancellor stood quickly and turned to go before they could grasp him. The guards hurried alongside as d’Amaral strode out the door and down the stairs of the Palace.

  Philippe was alone in the planning room for the first time in many weeks. It was late, and life had been an unending round of battle and battleplans. The treachery of d’Amaral had completely absorbed him. So much remained unexplained, incomprehensible. He had known Andrea for decades, had fought together, had lived life as brothers-at-arms. No matter the jealousy. No matter the enmity. It was beyond Philippe’s imagination that a hatred could run so deep as to betray the entire Order.

  But, of d’Amaral’s guilt, Philippe had no doubt. In the mind of the Grand Master, the witnesses and the evidence at the trial were overwhelming. D’Amaral was a traitor, and for this he would die.

  Philippe was excruciatingly weary, but sleep would not come. He sat down at his desk and thought he might compose a letter home to his family in Paris, though God alone knew when a ship might be able to leave Rhodes to deliver it. There was a light tapping at his door. He looked up to see Hélène move into the room, wringing her hands and shaking her head.

  “The news is all over the city, Philippe. It’s not to be believed,” she said. “That d’Amaral could have done this…”

  “Yes, it’s true enough. Andrea was—is—a traitor. He’s been spying for the Turks, or at least sending messages for some time. And he has been hiding stores from us. It’s unbelievable. But it’s true.” Philippe motioned to Hélène to come to him.

  Hélène nearly tripped on the torn hem of her now-ragged dress. She hugged him tightly to her, her small arms barely able to reach around his large chest. She breathed in the smells of war and death that still clung to his hastily cleaned cloak. As the two stood in the room in silence, her eyes went to his sword and scabbard; his helmet; his armor. All lying in a neat pile, ready for the next attack. How far they were from Paris now, she thought. And she wondered whether they would ever see her city again.

  Philippe took her arms and moved her away from him so he could see her. He looked at her in her disheveled state and smiled for a few seconds, when a sadness came over him that he could not control. She, too, had been working unthinkable hours. He also found himself overwhelmed at the thought of all the young knights who had died under his command; of Jean and Melina and their twin babies; of his loyal friend, Henry Mansell; and all the families who would never see their young men again.

  Hélène saw the tears forming in Philippe’s eyes and pulled him back to her. She felt his body start to shake and heard the beginnings of his sobs. She drew him away from his desk and the room filled with battleplans and weapons. Finally, she took him by his hand and led him to his bed. She gently pushed him down and helped him off with his boots. Then she lay down beside him and held him.

  An hour passed in si
lence. Philippe had dozed briefly, but Hélène remained awake, her mind teeming with questions for Philippe. Finally their eyes met in the dim light.

  “Philippe,” she said softly, “you must consider surrendering this island to the Sultan.”

  She could feel Philippe stiffen next to her, but he did not move, did not take his eyes from her. Then, after a long exhalation of breath, he began to speak to her in a voice she had never heard from him. There was no authority, no command. It was as if he were exploring an internal conversation, and she were eavesdropping.

  “We still control the city. We hold the walls, and all their military machinery is limited to their cannons and their Janissaries; a few sappers. Their cavalry sits idly by, useless in the face of our walls and our ditches.

  “My men are tired; exhausted; but, so it is in every siege. The whole object of siege warfare is to wear us down, and our only chance is to hold off for one more day. Each day, we must live to see still one more day. The weather is going to deteriorate soon. His men will be wet and sick and dispirited even more than they are now. You’ve only to look into the ditches and see the bodies rotting there to know how his armies are suffering…”

  “But, Philippe,” she said, interrupting him, “our people suffer, too. The hospital is full; we have no real doctors anymore; the people are frightened and they, too, are exhausted. The dead are piling up around us as well. It is not only the Turks whose bodies lie outside to rot. Could we not leave this place and find another home? Your knights have moved so many times. Is it not better to flee with most of your men and pick a better place to defend?”

  Philippe did not react, but seemed to stare past her. Hélène fell back upon the pillow, her fire gone. She had pleaded her case for all the people on the island. And still she had no idea what Philippe would do. His knights, she was sure, would do whatever he said. They would never betray their oaths.

  When Philippe woke, it was still dark. Hélène was gone, a bedside candle guttering. He rose and pulled on his boots. Then he went to his dresser and washed his face with a few drops of precious fresh water. There had been no bathing for anyone for several weeks now, and Philippe felt as if he wanted to take off his filthy skin.

  He lit a new candle and walked into his main room. He still had to have a final word with the man he had condemned to death, and witness the execution. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through the tangles of his white hair. Overwhelmed by his exhaustion, he finally laid his head upon the hard oak table, and again fell into a deep sleep.

  Philippe sat quietly in d’Amaral’s cell in the basement of the Tower of St. Nicholas. This fortress was set off on the northernmost spur of land between the Galley Port and the Mandraccio. Its cannons covered both harbors, and could reach out to the west nearly into the camps of the Janissaries.

  Philippe pulled his robes tighter about him in a vain effort to keep out the dampness and the cold. The room was barely big enough for the wooden bed and a chair. It smelled of urine and sweat. Dried food was left uneaten on a pewter plate on the floor by the bed. The jailers had placed a lighted candle on the floor, so that Philippe would not stumble in the darkness.

  Philippe had been sitting in the cell for almost an hour. Word had been sent to the Palace that d’Amaral was now conscious. But, by the time Philippe arrived, the Chancellor was asleep again. Philippe waited.

  Finally, d’Amaral stirred and reached for his drink. But his arm would not obey his commands, and he sent the drink spilling across the floor. His moments on the rack had assured that none of his limbs would ever function effectively again. This was the price of his silence.

  Philippe ordered more water. When the jailer returned, he took the flagon from him. He knelt down at the side of d’Amaral’s cot and held the water to Andrea’s cracked lips. D’Amaral drank too fast, and coughed most of the water up onto Philippe’s cloak. Philippe wiped himself with his handkerchief and held the flagon to d’Amaral’s lips once more. “Doucement, Andrea. Doucement. Do not hurry. You will choke.”

  D’Amaral opened his eyes and stared at Philippe as he drank. “Yes,” he rasped, “I will choke soon enough.”

  Philippe finished feeding d’Amaral the water, and then moved back to his seat. “Andrea,” he said, “we have known each other for more than forty years. You have served the Order in battle; at my side; on land; at sea. What happened? What’s made you betray your brothers? Surely, it is not that I was elected Grand Master and not you? There is always a loser in an election, yet none before you have gone to such extremes as to betray the Order; to betray the oath you swore before God Almighty.”

  D’Amaral stared at Philippe, but said nothing.

  “Andrea. We are alone now. Diaz is dead. He was hanged this morning, and even as we speak, his quartered parts hang from the battlements. Speak to me, for this might be our last chance. Tell me why you have done this.”

  D’Amaral licked his lips. He looked up at the ceiling. Then in a calm but hoarse voice, he began. “We quarreled at the Battle of Laiazzo. And, yes, I thought it was my destiny to be the Grand Master of Rhodes. You French have dominated the post for far too long. I was angry, yes. I was hurt. But, I’m a grown man, and know that such defeats are not grounds for treasonous acts. When I was heard to say that you will be the last Grand Master of Rhodes, I was not speaking of treason. I was speaking my truth, as I saw it. The Ottomans have grown too strong for us. We are a small island manned by a small force that cannot expect to remain here forever. The Sultan is determined that we will be destroyed. And, so we shall. We cannot succeed. The Sultan grows stronger and richer every day.”

  D’Amaral paused, and motioned for the flagon of water. Philippe reached down and helped him to another drink. Then Philippe sat back again and let his comrade continue. “Suleiman now holds Egypt as well as parts of Europe. It is only a matter of time. And, we have lost all our support from Europe. The Pope ignores us; Spain and France are too busy slaughtering each other to send us help; Italy cannot even govern itself, and is crushed by its civil wars. And as for our old friend, Venice….”

  Philippe waited for d’Amaral to continue. He knew what Andrea said was true. But, he would not let the knights capitulate to the Muslims. The Order had been on Rhodes for more than two hundred years. They had stopped Mehmet the Conqueror in 1480, and they would stop his great-grandson now.

  “What would you have us do, Andrea? The Muslims will slaughter every living person on this island. Not just the knights, but the mercenaries, the citizens. Those they spare will be slaves; the men to row their lives away in some stinking Ottoman galley, the women to be whores in the harem. Is this what we have sworn to Jesus to do? Is this how we are to keep our oaths to protect and to heal?”

  D’Amaral closed his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut tight as spasms of pain lancinated through his legs. When the spasms had passed, he said, “Philippe, you have failed to learn about our enemy. So great is your contempt for the Muslims that you refused to know them. Your stubbornness has caused unthinkable suffering for the knights and the Rhodians as well.” Philippe began to protest, but d’Amaral continued without pause. “What is driving you, Philippe? Is it your duty to God and Jesus? To the Order? Or are you making up for your sins in Paris? Your broken vows?”

  Philippe stiffened in his seat. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword until his hand hurt. But, he said nothing. D’Amaral went on. “Hasn’t the Sultan offered us the opportunity to surrender with honor? With the choice to remain Christians? Have we not been given the chance to stop the slaughter and live beside the Muslims in peace?”

  “And you believe this from the Infidel? You’ve seen our brothers slaughtered. You know what happened at Jerusalem. At Krak de Chevaliers. At Acre. Every remaining person was killed when the Muslims entered the cities. Their promises were lies. Damned lies. It is only by the grace of God that a few knights survived those massacres for the Order to survive with them.”

  “That was centuries ago, Philippe.
Look to Istanbul. Now. The Jews and the Christians live in peace with Muslims there. What will you accomplish by sacrificing all those who still remain alive on Rhodes? For what? The end is already ordained.” D’Amaral began coughing and stopped talking while Philippe helped him to some more water.

  Philippe slammed his right fist into his left palm. “It is not ordained. It is not over. Jesus will carry our banner, and we will drive the Infidels out of our home.” D’Amaral closed his eyes against the verbal onslaught. Philippe stood and said, “Andrea, your treachery is greater than that of Judas; at least his resulted in the ultimate greatest good to mankind. But, yours, yours might yet cost us Rhodes!”

  D’Amaral tore open the remains of his tunic, exposing the red raised scars on his chest. “See my wounds, Philippe. See them? These are my gifts from forty years of service to my Order.”

  Philippe looked down at the old battle scars spread out across the naked body. D’Amaral licked his lips and caught his breath. His voice was now just a croak and a whisper. “Am I then, now, to tell a lie and sell my honor to save my old limbs from the mere pain of the rack?”

  Without another word, Philippe turned his back on d’Amaral and stormed from the cell.

  Judge Fontanus stood in the doorway to d’Amaral’s cell. D’Amaral was dressed in simple prison attire. His robes and his badges of honor had been ripped from him. He was helped to a chair by two guards, for he was unable to stand on his own. His arms hung limply by his sides. D’Amaral looked directly at the judge.

  “You have been found guilty of treason by a Military Tribunal of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John. You have failed to make any defense or statements of mitigation. You have refused the solace of a priest of the Holy Roman Church. If you have no further statement to make, it is my duty to order that your execution proceed at once.”