Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  D’Amaral stared at Fontanus, but said nothing. Fontanus said, “Very well. You will be hanged by the neck until dead. Your remains will be displayed upon the walls of the city. May God Almighty have mercy upon your soul.” With that, Fontanus led the way to the gallows. Two knights carried the broken body of the once powerful Grand Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral from his cell.

  In front of a gathering of two hundred knights, Rhodians, and mercenaries, Andrea d’Amaral was hanged. When he was dead, his body was quartered and his head removed. The pieces were taken each to a separate battlement and set upon a spike, where they were left until nearly completely devoured by hungry ravens. After several days, what little remained of Grand Chancellor Andrea d’Amaral was placed in a catapult and hurled from the battlements into the camps of the Turks.

  Rhodes

  November, 1522

  The weather on Rhodes had been deteriorating since the middle of October. By November, the prevailing easterly winds brought bitterly cold wet gales across the water from the direction of the Turkish mainland. The rain rarely let up long enough for the Sultan’s troops to dry out before being soaked again. It was difficult to keep the fires going, for there was little dry wood to be found.

  The ditches around the city had filled with water, and the resulting mix of mud and blood made movement within them all but impossible. The bodies of the dead lay unburied, swollen and stinking in the rain. Attempts at digging graves were hopelessly inadequate, for the water and mud filled the graves before the bodies could be set down and covered.

  Disease spread through the camps. The doctors were kept busy trying to fight illnesses whose causes were unknown, and for which they had no effective medicines anyway. From time to time, in their frustration, each side resorted to catapulting the most odorous and decayed corpses into the camp of their enemy, hoping to somehow spread crippling and fatal diseases among the troops.

  The rain would stop for a few hours—sometimes for a day—and just as the spirit of the Sultan’s army would lift with the change in the weather, they would be pummeled again by a sudden storm and monster hail, knocking down their tents and putting out their cooking fires. The Sultan’s quarters, alone, remained dry and warm, for his serai had been transferred to a stone pavilion left undestroyed when the knights retreated into the city.

  The Sultan left his camp before dawn. The morning was cold and damp, but the easterly gales of winter had subsided for the past two days. The air was still, and as the sun moved up over the horizon, there was the promise of a break in the weather.

  Ibrahim had been asking Suleiman to take a break from the war. After more than three months of constant fighting, the Sultan had grown increasingly morose and distant. The emotional strain was evident on his now haggard face. Heavy dark bags hung down under his eyes. His skin looked pale and wan. After Suleiman relented, lifting the orders of execution on his Grand Vizier and Aghas, he had found it difficult to communicate directly with them. His night of rage had placed a barrier between him and his most trusted leaders, and he did not know if their relationship could ever be the same. So, he retreated into the solitude and isolation of so many of history’s sovereigns. He closeted himself in his serai with Ibrahim, and rarely saw anyone else but his mute servants. Only Ibrahim remained his stolid self, apparently unchanged by the ordeal.

  The two friends left the encampment and rode to the northwest. They picked up the coast road and continued through the morning at a slow walk. When the sea was in sight, they stopped and gazed out to the north, watching the waves crash upon the shore. With the passage of the hours, the sun burned off the mist, and for the first time in weeks, they could feel its slight warmth on their skin. Suleiman put his hand on the brown neck of his stallion, feeling the animal’s energy. Muscles rippled beneath the skin, and the brown hair warmed in the morning light.

  After about ten miles, they turned their horses inland to the south, and began the steep winding climb that would take them to the summit of Mt. Fileremos. From Phoenician times, the nine hundred–foot hill was used as a strategic observation point for almost every army that had occupied the island.

  The Janissary guard and the Sipahis rode ahead and behind the Sultan. As they approached the summit, the remains of the ancient Temple of Athena Ialysia became visible through the mountain mist. Some of the stone foundations were intact, and a few columns were recognizable by their sculpted bases.

  “We’ve come on a good day, haven’t we, Majesty?” Ibrahim said as they rode into the ruined city.

  “Mmmm. Look there, that is the monastery that the knights built, I think.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  The two rode slowly around the old city, and then returned to the northern slopes of the hillside overlooking the sea. There, they dismounted. Two grooms rushed to take the horses, and several servants set up a small breakfast and chairs. Hot drinks were brought, and plates set out before the Sultan. Soon, the servants withdrew, and Ibrahim was alone with Suleiman.

  “Majesty, I’ve been worried these last weeks. You have been overly quiet and withdrawn. I’m afraid the strain of command has taken a greater toll on you than any of the previous campaigns we have been on together. Even Belgrade did not present your Majesty with such difficult conditions and decisions.”

  Suleiman nodded, still looking off toward the sea. “Yes, it is so. The hardest part has been with the Aghas. I’m not sure what will come of it. I had no choice but to send Mustapha Pasha away. He has not recovered from the incident, and though I have no doubt of his bravery, he cannot be regarded in the same way as before. Sending Mustapha to govern in Egypt and transferring his sector to Qasim Pasha has saved face all around.” He paused, and then turned to Ibrahim and added, “And, may save me fighting another battle when we return to Istanbul.” They both laughed, Ibrahim a bit nervously.

  “What have we heard from our spies within the city? Is the end any nearer?” Ibrahim asked.

  “Actually, we are getting less and less news from our highly placed informants. But, it seems that every day more arrows fly into our camps. The sentries pick them up like so much debris on the ground. Though our spies are silent, the ordinary citizens are betraying the knights now. They tell us of shortages, of disease. They plead for us to enter the city and rescue them from this hell; the city is a shambles. There is little food, shot, or powder left, and the citizens are at the edge of revolt. Apparently, there have been several hangings. I suspect these may have been some of our spies who were discovered. Ayas Pasha has had no news from his source for some days now. But, we will stay here until it is over, and if it means that we will kill every knight in that wretched city, so be it. The knights will receive no help from their friends. If the winter weather makes my men miserable, it will also make hazardous any travel to and from Europe. No, Ibrahim, I am not leaving until my Bunchuk flies over the battlements of the city. Inch’ Allah.”

  “I don’t know why the Grand Master is so stubborn,” Ibrahim said. “It almost seems as if he thinks it is better for his subjects to die in battle than to surrender to you. The message we sent to him has offered him mercy if he surrenders. You have been most generous, but he treats you with contempt.”

  “And so will his blood answer for his arrogance. Pity his people.”

  As the Sultan and Ibrahim planned to maintain the siege, the Turkish sappers continued to move in under the walls of the city. Though the trenches were filled with bodies and blood, still they dug and crept like worms to undermine the structure protecting the city.

  Gabriele Tadini lay in his hospital bed, slowly recovering from his terrible wound. The knights swore that only the hand of God could have saved a man from such an injury. Even with the sight of his right eye gone and part of his skull blown away, Tadini directed his men from his bed. Several times a day, his officers would come to him and plan strategy. It was all the doctors could do to keep the great engineer in bed. Each day he tried to return to the tunnels and lead his men in the dangerous w
ork of counter-mining. It was only the orders of Philippe, himself, that kept Tadini in the hospital. “I shall send you back to Crete on the next galley if you disobey me, Gabriele,” Philippe had shouted. “You’ll have more to fear from the Venetian governor there than from the Turks, mark my words. For the sake of Jesus, we need your skill. But you are no good to us dead. Listen to the doctors. They have saved you thus far. They will tell you when it is safe to leave the hospital.”

  Tadini slumped back in his bed and pouted. He did not try to leave the hospital again for several more weeks.

  Towards the middle of the month of November, Philippe sent for Fra Nicholas Fairfax of the langue of England. “I have a mission for you, Nicholas. We’ve begun to see the fruits of our search for reinforcements, and I need still more men and supplies if we are to continue to hold off the Turks. Sit down.”

  Fairfax took a seat opposite Philippe. Philippe continued, “Last week, two brigantines arrived from Anatolia—from the Castle of St. Peter on Bodrum—with twelve knights and a hundred mercenaries. They brought food, powder, and shot. Not enough, but we can still use it. Also, two barques arrived from Lindos with twelve knights and provisions.” Fairfax nodded, and listened in silence.

  “I want you to take a small force of men—only enough to defend your ship—and break the blockade. It should be easy enough in this terrible weather. You will sail to Crete, and rendezvous at Candia. There is a barque and a carrack waiting for you, laden with supplies. Bring them back and go ashore anywhere you can. Preferably into our harbors, but at all costs bring us those provisions. Find Fra Emeric Depreaulx and dispatch him to Naples, to plead our cause one last time. I’m sending a small galley to Kos, and ordering the garrison there to abandon their post and to gather here to help defend the city.”

  Philippe looked carefully at Fairfax. “Nicholas, this is our last chance. If I cannot get more men and supplies, we shall all die at the hands of the Turk. They have endless food and weapons, and they will sacrifice any number of men to this siege. They must not see us falter. We have been terribly hurt by the treachery within our ranks; this is the only chance I have left.”

  “My Lord, I shall see to all of this. If there are men and arms to be had, I shall return with them.”

  “God be with you, Nicholas.”

  “And with you, my Lord.”

  During the last week of November, Suleiman unleashed two general attacks on the city. Each Agha led his troops personally, and every able man was thrown into the attack. The first assault began against the Posts of England and Italy. Qasim and Piri Pasha drove their men through the trenches and up onto the walls. They were badly impeded by the mud and the bodies lying dead under their feet, but their huge numbers pressed forward, as always, accompanied by the beating of drums and cymbals and the blare of trumpets. Scimitars waving, the Aghas and their Azabs pushed through the breaches again and again throughout the next several days. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers made it into the city itself, and there was fighting in every alley and street. The knights rushed from one post to another, reinforcing their brothers wherever they were needed. Mercenaries and citizens fought off the onslaught, and backed up the knights when they could.

  Each night as the darkness closed over the battlefield, the Turks were pushed back out into the trenches again. They slipped and fell and scrambled back as their retreat was followed by enfilades of shot and arrows from the remaining towers. When the blackness was complete, the city was secured again for one more night.

  Suleiman met with the Aghas again, and again he was briefed on the happenings of the day. The Aghas told their tales honestly and without excuse. The knights had fought hard. The Turks had fought hard. And the city still belonged to the Order.

  “Majesty,” Bali Agha said. “Each battle brings us closer to victory. Though it’s disappointing that we are driven back out of the city every night, with each day we fight our way further and further inside. They lose many in the battles, and they have very few left to lose. While we can replace our losses, they cannot. While we have shot and powder, they are running out. Their batteries still fire, but I have noticed that they fire less frequently than before. I think they’re saving what little they have left. If we persevere, we will see the day when there is nothing left for them to fight us with; no knights to man the breaches.”

  Suleiman didn’t answer. Piri bowed, and then spoke. “Majesty, Bali Agha is right. If we continue these assaults, and do not falter, we will, Inch’ Allah, win the battle.”

  So, all the Aghas spoke to Suleiman, and all agreed that the pressure must be kept up if the siege were to end with a Turkish victory. There was no talk—at least among the leaders—of a return to Istanbul. The Sipahis, the Janissaries, and the Azabs would, if necessary, spend the winter on Rhodes.

  “Very well. Prepare our quarters for the winter. Send word to my ships that they are to weigh anchor and move offshore to the Anatolian coast, there to await my further orders out of sight of this land. Let our armies see these preparations, so that there can be no doubt that their only transport home has already left for the winter. Let them know that we will stay until the city is ours, if I must slay every last one of their accursed souls. Let this be known!”

  November 30th. Nicholas Roberts stood on the battlements at the side of the Grand Master. Philippe stared out at the spectacle before him. In the lowering gloom and drizzle, he could see tens of thousands of Turkish troops moving towards every wall and battlement in the city. Trumpets and drums preceded the advance. As usual, there was no surprise when the Turks attacked, as it was announced with martial music and fanfare. The citizens of Rhodes had learned to fear the coming of the music, for they knew it preceded still another day of death.

  Philippe turned to Roberts and asked, “Are the knights in place, Nicholas?”

  “They are, my Lord. What knights we have. I’ve ordered them to defend the breaches that are still open. The mercenaries will back them up. The few loyal Rhodian citizens we have left fighting are organized into small roaming bands to fight where they can. Many of the Turks will get into the city, I’m afraid, so our fighting force is now diluted. We cannot stand and plug every breach as we once could.”

  “I know, Nicholas, I know.” There was a sadness and a resignation that Roberts had not seen in the Grand Master before. It seemed as if Philippe had given up all hope, and only his legendary bravery—some called it stubbornness—kept him going.

  Soon, the music began to fade, overwhelmed by the shouts of the advancing armies. On all sides at once, the Turkish soldiers moved through the trenches and began to climb the earth embankments that led to the walls. Simultaneously, Azabs descended into the tunnels, digging and clawing their way inside the city. Fighting raged at every post, and none were spared a moment’s rest.

  The Turkish Aghas had learned from their earlier battles that they could not afford to allow the knights the luxury of defending a single point of attack. Only by capitalizing on their superior forces could they sweep into the city. And they did.

  Philippe fought alongside his knights through much of the morning. He stood, as always, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, and slashed his heavy sword through the onrushing bodies of the Turks. His strength was incredible, as he matched the younger knights stroke for stroke, paring down the advancing troops. Several times he was forced to retreat, but each time he and his knights rejoined the battle from a more defensible ground. Soon, they were fighting well within the walls, and the Turkish soldiers were both behind and in front of the pockets of resistance.

  Towards afternoon, the furor of the battle abated slightly. Both sides were drained by fatigue, thirst, and hunger. Incredibly, as the early darkness drew near, the knights once again pressed the Turkish assault back. It was as if the coming night were the goal itself; if only they could survive until darkness, the knights might live to fight yet one more day. No one, it seemed, within the city walls, could manage to think beyond that.

  Darkness cam
e, and the last of the Sultan’s army disappeared back into the trenches. When night had fallen, more than five thousand brave young Turkish soldiers joined their brothers lying dead in ditches. And hundreds of knights, mercenaries, and Rhodians lay dead as well.

  Quiet descended upon both camps, as their leaders met yet again to decide the fate of the living.

  Rhodes

  December, 1522

  Gabriele Tadini awoke before dawn on the first day of December, more than four months into the endless siege. The wind drove freezing rain against the shuttered windows of the hospital, rattling the wood against the huge iron hinges. In an effort to conserve the fast-dwindling supplies, only a few lamps remained burning through the night. The yellow glow flickered weakly, barely lighting the massive hospital ward. The vaulted ceilings remained in darkness, like a huge indoor night sky.

  Most of the patients were asleep. The doctors and their assistants had just retired for a moment’s rest before the start of the new day. The air in the ward was rank, for the windows and doors had been closed for days against the constant cold and dampness, as well as the bombardment. The smells of infected wounds and disinfectants mixed in their nostrils, and few of the knights or inmates ever became fully tolerant of the odor.

  Tadini sat up on the edge of his cot, pausing while he regained his balance. Seeing the world through his left eye had been disorienting for him. He constantly turned his head to the right to widen his field of vision.

  He removed the cloth bandages that wrapped his temples. After six weeks, the skin was now completely closed, and the dressings served no purpose. He threw the soiled mass of cloth into the corner and took a brown leather patch from his pocket. Thin leather thongs had been fixed to the two edges, and the stiff leather worked into a gentle curve that would hug Tadini’s cheek and forehead.