The tissues of the right eye were almost completely gone. Tadini’s now-useless orbit filled first with fluid secretions, and finally a fibrous scar tissue that had, in the past two weeks, hardened into an exquisitely tender gray mass.
In the darkness, Tadini placed the patch over his right eye socket, padding the surface of the orbit with the clean remnants of a silk handkerchief. He held the silk in place and secured the leather patch by tying the ends behind his head. After testing the whole apparatus by shaking his head, he nodded to himself with satisfaction. The leather patch stayed in place.
Next, he grasped the side of the bed and raised himself carefully to a standing position. His balance was a bit precarious since his injury, though he couldn’t tell if it were from the loss of half his visual field or from some damage inflicted upon his brain by the bullet. Satisfied that he would not fall, Tadini got dressed.
The young French knight Jean Parisot de la Valette had been assigned by the Grand Master to look after Tadini’s needs while he was recuperating. Valette stayed with Tadini day and night, often shuttling back and forth between the hospital and the battlements bringing news of the battle to Tadini and conveying orders to the knights.
He had quietly brought Tadini’s battle clothes into the hospital during the night. Knowing that the doctors would argue and create a row, Tadini had the clothes and his sword brought secretly and stored beneath his bed. Valette had balked, especially after the stern words from the Grand Master that Tadini was not to leave the hospital until the doctors released him. Now, in the darkness, with the quiet broken only by the background of snoring and coughing, Tadini dressed for battle. He girded himself with the broadsword, meticulously sharpened and polished by Valette. Then he placed his helmet carefully on his head and, beckoning impatiently for Valette, he strode from the ward. He hesitated at the top of the wide stone staircase to face the driving wind and icy rain. With the wetness fresh in his face, he took a deep breath of air and thought, Beware, soldiers of the Sultan. Take care and beware of me. Tadini is back!
Philippe sat crouched over the battle plans for the day. He rotated his neck slowly to relieve the pain that gathered between his shoulders and radiated into his back. Nothing seemed to ease the tension that had built there over the months of battle. He began to feel as if he were being pulled apart by the divisiveness around him. The citizens were now on the edge of open revolt. Nothing, they thought, could be worse than the lives they now led. How could rule by the Sultan be worse than the disease, starvation, and death that now gripped the city? Even Hélène had cast doubt upon Philippe’s resolve to stay the course. But, Philippe also recognized that his own determination might be affected by his need to protect Hélène.
Most of the knights followed Philippe’s orders without hesitation. But, each day he could see the brightness in their eyes diminish as they went off to their posts. They fought bravely, but the odds were overwhelming them. A few had broached the subject of an honorable surrender. Philippe had thundered at them and squelched their pleas with his rage at the idea of capitulation with the Muslims. Death with honor, he told them, was far preferable to the disgrace of surrender to the Infidels. “I would rather die in the service of Christ than surrender to live under the yoke of the Muslims,” he said.
Philippe rubbed his red eyes and reached for a piece of stale bread. The oil lamps flickered, reminding him that he should have them refilled before his command post was plunged into darkness. His Palace had been divinely blessed, he thought; not a single shot had struck her walls. Amidst all the destruction of his beautiful city, no cannonball had found the Palace of the Grand Master.
As he dwelt upon the wonder of God’s protection, he heard the door open. A knight took several steps into the room, and waited to be recognized. Philippe closed his eyes and wondered what more impossibly bad news would come to him now. “Yes?” he said wearily as he looked up. “Dear Jesus!” he said, and brought his hand to his chest.
Philippe hesitated for a second. Then, as if new blood had been injected into his body, he rose from his seat and rounded the edge of the table. He reached out and took Tadini’s shoulders between his two large hands. The two men stared at each other, and then Philippe pulled Tadini to him, embracing him in a hug that nearly took Tadini’s breath away. Valette remained in the hallway, out of range of Philippe’s possible reprimand.
“Figlio mio,” he murmured, still holding Tadini close. “My son, my son…” Barely stopping the tears that formed on his cheeks, Philippe stepped back and looked at his knight.
Tadini began to smile. Soon, he could contain his joy no more. His teeth showed through the edges of his mustache, and he began to laugh and nod. “Did you think a mere bullet through my head would stop me, my Lord?”
Philippe began to shake his head. He wiped the tears from his face and stepped back. He put his left hand out to touch the leather patch, then withdrew it, clasping his hand in front of him, as if to prevent himself from reaching out again. “No, my son. Not you. It will take more than that to keep you from the enemy’s throat.”
Philippe returned to his seat and motioned Tadini to the empty chair across the table. Tadini sat and, without waiting, began to tell Philippe his plans.
The guard on the Gate of St. John peered through the dim light, straining to see what was moving toward them. There had been no fanfare, no music. So, it was unlikely that a general assault was in the making. They could see no significant troop movements. As the minutes passed, the figure took on the shape of a man, walking upright through the trenches toward the gate.
The Master of the Guard moved his musketeers into position and ordered them to take aim, but to hold their fire. The man proceeded through the trench, stepping over the bodies of the dead. From time to time, he slipped, and twice fell completely down out of sight. At each of these sudden movements, the musketeers nearly opened fire. Only the shortage of powder and shot kept them from wasting any ammunition on this solitary figure.
Soon it was clear that the man was carrying a staff at the end of which the guards could clearly see a white flag. The man stepped out into clear sight, and the Master of the Guard waved his musketeers back. The guns were lowered, and the man stepped up to the gate.
The guard stood waiting. The man looked up. He planted his staff in the rubble and mud. He waited to be recognized, for the gate to be opened. But, nothing of the sort happened. Finally, he said, “I am Girolamo Monile of Genoa. I have come under this flag of truce as an emissary from the Sultan, Suleiman.”
The guards kept their silence. A knight arrived and moved into position next to the Master of the Guard. “Who is this man?” he asked.
“He says he is Girolamo Monile. A Genoese. He says he is an emissary from the Sultan.”
The knight leaned over the parapet and said, “What do you wish to tell us?”
“The Sultan has ordered me to bring you this offer: if you surrender the city now, all lives will be spared, knights, mercenaries, citizens. You will be free to stay here in peace, or to go in peace. The slaughter will end. The war will be over.” Then he paused and leaned forward, clearly now speaking for himself, rather than the Sultan. He said, “I beg of you. Save your lives and the lives of the people.”
The knight stood upon the parapet and stared down at the man, who was now holding on to his staff of truce for support.
The knight had heard Philippe’s outbursts at the talk of surrender. He had seen the Grand Master’s fury at the suggestion of capitulation. No. There was no way that the city would be turned over to the Muslims. They might all die on these cursed walls, but they would defend their home.
The knight raised his chin a fraction. Still looking directly down into the eyes of the emissary, he raised his gloved right hand and waved the man away.
Hélène finished dressing the wounds of the knight lying on the operating table. His infection was rising higher and higher along his arm, gangrene threatening his life. The doctors were barely keeping th
e infections at bay with daily removal of the dead tissue.
Hélène applied the last of the bandages—now fashioned from the washed bandages of the dead—and tied a knot to hold them together. She placed a hand on the knight’s forehead, still wet with fever. “C’est finis, mon cher. À tout à l’heure.” It’s done, my dear. See you later.
She stretched her aching back and stifled a yawn. Then, she signaled to some helpers to take the knight to his bed to make room for the next patient.
Hélène rubbed her eyes, suddenly dizzy. She staggered a few steps before catching herself, leaning against one of the stone pillars that supported the massive vaulted roof. She waited there while her vision cleared, then walked to an alcove where she lowered herself carefully to the ground and rested her back against the wall. Almost all the available space in the huge hospital was now taken up by the wounded and the dying; knights, mercenaries, and citizens.
She sat thinking for a moment, trying to understand her lack of strength; she was afraid that she had caught something from one of the sick patients in the hospital. There were hundreds of patients with fevers from God-only-knew what diseases were ravaging the city now. But she had no fever herself. And there was no rash on her hands or feet like the patients with the dreaded typhus. No, she thought, I’ve just pushed myself too far. When she considered it further, she realized that she had been without sleep for more than three days and nights, and that her last real food of any kind had been at breakfast the day before. No wonder I feel so dreadful, she thought.
Hélène had not recovered from the loss of Melina, Jean, and their babies. But, most of all, it was Melina’s companionship she missed. They had grown so close so quickly under the stress of the siege as well as the shared quandary about the future of their lives with their knights. Hardly a conversation would go by when the two of them would not pour out their dreams and their fears to each other. Hélène had found a sister in Melina, and now she missed her sorely.
Other than Philippe, she realized, there was literally not another soul on that island with whom she could share her story or seek advice. She was more alone in the crowded confines of the fortress than she had ever been in her life.
She pulled herself to her feet, and grabbed her cape from a peg on the wall near the small room she had shared with Melina and the babies. She never failed to become choked with tears as she passed that room or thought of Melina and Jean; of Ekaterina and Marie. They had grown to be like her own family in the short time she knew them, almost her own children. She had not entered the room since.
As she started to go, she again felt a wave of dizziness and once more steadied herself against the stone pillars. She knew now it was the combination of lack of food and exhaustion that was causing it, and headed downstairs to the field kitchen on the first floor.
She thought of Philippe as she made her way through the crowded rooms where the meals—meager as they were—were prepared for the patients and the hospital staff. He, too, must be suffering from the same deprivations as she. He never takes the time he needs to eat or rest, she thought. He must be as weak as I am by now. His officers say he never leaves the field when there is fighting to be done, then he goes back to his rooms and pours over the battleplans all night.
Hélène pushed past the workers who were waiting their turn in line. “Make me something to bring to the Grand Master,” she shouted to one of the cooks. All the heads turned, the room plunged into near silence. Hélène ignored the awkward moment. Damn them if they thought she would hide who she was. “And something to drink,” she added. “Quickly!”
The cooks wrapped some bread and dried meat in paper, and handed the small bundle to Hélène along with an open wine bottle filled with some liquid that she did not recognize.
Hélène tied her cloak around her shoulders and headed out into the street level. She made her way along the Street of the Knights in the direction of the Palace. She would find Philippe, put some hot soup into their stomachs from his kitchen, and force him to take some of this bread and meat. Then they would try to get a few hours sleep. She would be no good to anyone at the hospital if she collapsed from exhaustion or illness. And neither would he.
She reached the Palace short of breath and sweating. She climbed the stairs and shrugged her cloak off her shoulders as she went. Unannounced, she went into Philippe’s quarters expecting to find him going through his maps, or in a planning meeting with his officers. But, the room was empty. She put her parcel on the great oak desk in the outer room and went into the bedroom. Philippe was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands. He was still in his battle clothes and boots. He had taken only the time to remove his sword from his waist and place it on the floor beside the bed.
He looked up as Hélène reached him, and started to rise to greet her. Hélène placed her hand on his shoulder and dropped to the bed beside him. “Dear God! You look awful, Philippe. Oh, look at your poor face!”
Philippe unconsciously rubbed his callused fingers over his beard and cheeks. “Well,” he said smiling, “this is the face of a hundred days of war.” Hélène was touched at his attempt at lightheartedness, but she knew it was a ruse. She could see the pallor in his face, the sallow color, the wrinkles that had not been there before.
“You must rest, Philippe, and get something into your stomach. I’ve brought you a meal,” she said, pointing to his desk in the other room. “Let’s just take a few minutes to eat together and then sleep for a few hours. Neither of us will be any good if we go on this way.”
She waited for his inevitable protest; his bluster and bravado that she knew so well. But, instead, he nodded and rose from the bed. He took her by the hand and then embraced her tightly without kissing her. He let her go, and walked into the outer room. She watched him depart, more frightened by this uncharacteristic response than she would have been if he had refused the meal and the sleep and rushed off to his men on the battlements. Though she knew he was near the end of his strength, it frightened her more to see this frailness in him.
Hélène followed Philippe into the outer room and opened the bundle of bread and meat. He went to the door and called to his aide. “Some soup, if there’s any,” he said to the young man. “For the two of us.” Then he went to the sideboard and took down a half-full bottle of wine. He moved the bottle that Hélène had brought without examining it, and poured two golden goblets from his own. He handed Hélène one of them, and lifted his own in a toast. “To Paris. To Rhodes. To us.”
Hélène relaxed for the first time since she had walked into the room. “To us,” she said.
They both emptied their goblets and then sat adjacent to each other at the old battered oak desk. Philippe pushed aside the maps and the papers and broke the hard loaf of bread, giving a piece to Hélène and taking one for himself. He ignored the dried meat entirely, chewing slowly on his piece of bread as if it were a freshbaked delight from the finest boulangerie in Paris.
“You’re right,” he admitted, “I’m so very tired.”
“We must both rest, Philippe. The others can take our places for awhile. No one can go on indefinitely like this. If you are too tired….Oh, Philippe. I’m so worried for you out there on the walls. Every time another wounded knight is carried into the hospital, I’m afraid it will be you.”
“Listen, my love. This fight…all our fights…there is always the possibility that I could die out there. One parry missed. One feint. The blade that comes out of nowhere and….You know what can happen.”
Hélène finished her half of the bread and took another small drink of wine. Then she took Philippe by the hand and led him to the bedroom. “Come. We need to sleep, and I’ll sleep better knowing you’re within reach.”
They took off their outer clothes and crawled under the blankets. The odor was stronger now than Hélène had remembered. The smell was different from those at the hospital; distinctly hers and Philippe’s. It had been a long time since anyone or anything in Rhodes had be
en washed.
When they were settled under the covers, Hélène and Philippe lay on their sides, cradling each other. Hélène said, “Philippe, is this not the time to bargain with the Sultan to raise the siege? To end this war before many more are dead?”
“In good time, Hélène. We’ll talk of it in good time.”
Before she could speak, she heard the unmistakable snores of her lover’s deepest sleep. It can wait, she told herself. I’ll talk to him before the sun comes up. “I love you,” she whispered.
The morning light broke the darkness through a single chink in the shutters, falling across Hélène’s face and waking her. She reached out for Philippe and was startled to find him gone, and the hour so clearly late. The bedclothes were tucked tightly about her, the pillow placed under her head.
“Philippe?” she called, hoping to find him in the outer room. There was no answer. In the light coming through the shutters, she could see that his armor and sword were gone as well. She would have to wait for still another chance to talk about the possibility of surrender.
She dressed quickly and grabbed the remains of the bread as she left the office, chewing as she ran down the steps of the Palace. She left the courtyard and turned down the familiar route along the Street of the Knights. As she passed each Inn, she looked around to see if any of the knights she knew were there. The street was filling with knights and mercenaries and citizens readying themselves for another day of fighting. There were enormous obstacles created by the rubble of the bombardment that went on day and night. The crowds moved in small groups, directed more by the rubble than their goal. There was still sporadic firing into the heart of the city, more to unnerve and demoralize the citizens of Rhodes than for strategic destruction. The majority of the artillery still concentrated on destroying the fortress walls.
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