Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  Hélène continued her way toward the hospital when she came upon a small crowd of people hovering in a tight circle around the debris of a blasted building. There was a lot of agitated conversation, which was nearly drowned out by the sobbing and cries of a Greek woman. Hélène pushed her way into the circle to see what was going on. There, on the pile of stones, sat a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed in rags, holding the body of a small child, perhaps three or four years old. There was blood coming from the child’s forehead and her right arm was twisted at an odd angle near the elbow. The woman clutched the child to her breast, rocking back and forth making the most awful keening noises. All of the others were talking at once.

  Hélène reached for the child, telling the mother in French that she had to get the little girl to the hospital. ‘Je vous en prie, madam; donnez-moi votre jeune fille.” But the woman only cried louder and harder, crushing the child to her more tightly. Hélène tried again in Greek.

  Just then a door slammed behind the group, and a knight from the Inn of Aragon stepped into the street, trying to push his way past the group of citizens. He appeared angry and flustered by the people preventing him from getting back to his post. He started to shove two of the men aside when Hélène grabbed his sleeve. “Ayudame, Señor.” Help me, sir, she pleaded in Spanish. The knight at first tried to shake free, but then realized that this was the Grand Master’s woman. He pulled up short and bowed slightly. “Si, Señorita?”

  “I need your help. We must get this child to the hospital before it’s too late. She could die any minute unless we do.”

  Without another word, the knight turned to the woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. He whispered something to her, and took the child from her arms. He cradled the child with his body, and to the mother said, “Gracias, Señora. Vaya con Dios.”

  Then, he hurried with Hélène back toward the hospital. They were walking quickly along the street dodging between the wildly strewn rocks and debris. “What did you say to her?” she asked as they went.

  “I told her to give me her child, and that God would help us to heal her. I don’t know if she thinks we’re going to the hospital or to the church, but in any case, she gave me the child, didn’t she?”

  Hélène smiled. Then, just as she opened her mouth to speak, the cannonball struck. Neither she nor the knight had heard the blast from that particular cannon. It was just another beat in a background timpani of destruction.

  The stone struck the knight and the child directly, crushing them to death in an instant. It shattered into fragments as it hit the wall of the nearest inn, creating a shower of sharp pieces of rock that flew out in a semicircle, taking down everyone who had been standing in the street at that moment. Among the dozens of wounded and dead, Hélène lay with her back against the remaining stone walls of the inn. A large piece of the cannonball—nearly half its mass—lay resting across her knees, pinning her to the ground like a butterfly. Oddly, she felt little pain in her crushed legs, only a chill spreading rapidly through her body.

  Several shards of stone had cut their way into Hélène’s chest, making her breath labored and shallow. Most of the blood stayed inside, leaving her dress free of any sign of her injuries.

  She thought of her night with Philippe, glad she had taken him some food; had been able to spend the night in his arms. If only he would surrender the city and stop the dying. She recalled Paris, and the day she broke his nose at the fountain; and the nights secreted away in her room or his. She smiled at the thought at the same time as tears began to roll down her cheek.

  Then a warmth suffused her, chasing away the cold that had permeated her body only a minute before.

  She saw Philippe’s face staring at her through his open visor. His scarlet cloak was spotless as it was the day she first saw him. His sword was shining in his hand, his eyes clear and rested. He blew her a kiss, then turned his back and strode quickly back down the Street of the Knights.

  As soon as Philippe was gone from sight, Hélène closed her eyes and let him go.

  Antonio Bosio stepped quietly into Philippe’s office without knocking. The Grand Master was at his desk, his head folded in his crossed arms, asleep on a pile of maps and drawings of the fortress. He stirred as soon as Bosio approached, then sat up rubbing his already red eyes. A few crusts of dried tears of sleep had collected in the corner of each eye, which he wiped away without any thought.

  “Antonio,” he said, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “What time is it?”

  “Grand Master…”

  Philippe looked at Bosio and could see the pain etched in knight’s weathered face. “What is it, Antonio? Not another of our officers killed…dear God, please not another.”

  Bosio rounded the corner of the desk as Philippe made to rise from his chair. Bosio placed a hand upon the old man’s shoulder and forced him firmly but gently down into his seat, a gesture unheard of and almost unimaginable in the hierarchy of the Order.

  In that momentary contact between their bodies and their eyes, Philippe knew. He slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Bosio could hear only the rasping breath as it escaped Philippe’s lips.

  The Grand Master shuddered, his whole body shaking as he tried to hold himself together. Then, after some minutes, the spasms of grief gave way to a numb surrender. His body sank deeper into his chair, his once powerful chest sunken and frail.

  “How, Antonio? When?”

  Bosio kept a firm hand on Philippe’s shoulders, now comforting more than restraining. “In the past hour, my Lord. A cannonball. She and a knight from Aragon were taking a wounded child to the hospital…”

  “Who was the knight?”

  Bosio hesitated, then said, “We’re not sure, my Lord. The cannonball was…it was one of their largest. We…we cannot tell who he is, only that he is in the uniform of Aragon.”

  Philippe squeezed his eyes more tightly shut as if he could push away the image of his beautiful Hélène, his destroyed Hélène. He thought about their last hours together; how Hélène had been so concerned for his health; how she had fed him and caressed him and tried to convince him yet again to give up the battle. To surrender Rhodes. Had he kissed her goodbye? Had he told her he loved her? He couldn’t remember, and it made his chest feel hollow.

  He tried to rise again, but Bosio held him firmly in his seat.

  “I need to go to her, Antonio. To see her.” His voice was barely audible, little more than a breath.

  But, Philippe was unable to push through Bosio’s grip nor the weight of Bosio’s body. At first, the Grand Master struggled weakly against the insubordination of his long-time Servant-at-Arms. Then he gave up his struggle.

  Bosio said softly and kindly, “Please, my Lord. Remember her as she was when you last saw her. Let me attend to her personally. I will see her prepared for burial in the most Christian way. I will spare nothing for her. When she is ready, I will call you to the chapel where the Bishop will say prayers for her and the knight, and for the little girl. Please, as I am your servant and your friend.”

  Tadini stood atop the walls at the Gate of St. John. Wounded again in another skirmish in one of the tunnels, he supported his weight with a rough-hewn crutch made by one of his miners from a supporting beam of a collapsed tunnel. His knee was wrapped in several layers of cloth bandages. Blood had seeped through at several places. Instead of changing them, Tadini merely sought out more cloth, and tied yet another layer on top. He could not bend the limb anyway, so the bulky bandages did not impede his movement further.

  At his side was his knight, Valette, and the guards assigned to the Gate. Word had come of the return of the emissary, and Tadini wanted to be there for the exchange.

  Valette saw him first. Monile was making his way through the same trench with the same standard and the same large white flag of truce. Again, the musketeers took aim, and again they were told to hold their fire.

  Tadini waited as Monile slipped and staggered through the b
odies. When, at last, he planted his standard in the mud and looked up, Tadini greeted him in Italian. “Buon giorno, Signore Monile.” Monile was startled to be addressed in his own language. “What a fine day for a walk in the country. Eh?” Tadini said.

  Monile could not figure out who this maniac was, standing there with his eye patched and blood staining the bulky bandages about his knee. Monile stood beneath the walls and stammered in Italian, “Signore, I have a letter from the Sultan Suleiman to the Grand Master Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam.”

  Tadini smiled at Monile. Without listening to another word, he said, “Take this back to the Sultan, Suleiman.” He turned to the musketeer nearest him and said, “Send him on his way, but do not hurt him.”

  A shot rang out, the blast making Tadini wince. A thud came from the direction of Monile, as the bullet struck the mud next to his feet. Monile dropped the standard with the white flag, and began to scramble back through the trench far faster than he had come.

  The knights and the guards watched until he disappeared into the Turkish lines.

  Tadini turned and hobbled back along the walls in the direction of the Palace. As he passed the musketeer, he smiled and said, “Grazie.”

  Suleiman sat in the newly constructed stone serai. All his Aghas and Ibrahim were with him. The fire had dried out the dampness in the air, and the room had a cozy, welcoming air about it. Piri Pasha was comfortable for the first time in several weeks. His arthritis was plaguing him in the damp cold weather, and every movement had been torture. Even Qasim Pasha and Bali Agha, the most fit of the Aghas, admitted to suffering from aches and pains more than usual.

  Piri explained the events of the past few days. “Majesty, our envoys have not even been allowed into the gates of the city. The Genoese, Monile, delivered your offer, but he was not allowed in. The second time he went to the gates, they fired upon him. I’m sure they only meant to humiliate him, but I don’t think he’ll go back.”

  Suleiman tapped his fingers on the quilted arm of his chair. “When they humiliate my envoy, Piri, they humiliate me. It will not do to humiliate me.”

  “No, Majesty, it will not.”

  “And the Albanian? Was he received?”

  “He has only just returned to the camp, Majesty. He, too, was rebuffed before he could deliver his message.”

  The Aghas sat in silence. They were all happy to have the Sultan focused on the failure of the diplomatic envoys and not the military missions.

  Suleiman leaned forward and placed his elbow on his knee. He tucked his chin onto the palm of his hand and tapped his forefinger against his upper lip as he concentrated on his thoughts. “Must I slaughter every man, woman, and child on this accursed island in order to be free of these Christian knights? Must blood fill the ditches and fire burn their city to the ground? Have I not done as Allah directs me? Do I not conduct my war as the Qur’an instructs me? Do I not follow the words of the Prophet, may Allah bless his eternal soul? What more can I do?”

  None of the Aghas so much as raised an eye toward the Sultan. None wanted the privilege of offering advice. Piri backed away from Suleiman and returned to his seat.

  Suleiman stirred in his throne. He looked up and scanned the faces of his Aghas. “There will be no more general attacks. The loss of life is too wasteful now for the results we gain. Achmed Agha, keep your sappers and miners burrowing and undermining the walls. We can, at least, continue to make the city crumble beneath the enemy’s feet. And the bombardment. I want our cannon to fire ceaselessly into the city and against the walls and towers. Never should the knights have a chance to rest. Never should they sleep without the constant fear of one of our balls smashing into their dreams. I want the people of Rhodes to rise up against the knights and demand their surrender. I want them to open the gates and welcome us into the city as their salvation, rather than their conquerors.”

  The Aghas bowed and acknowledged the will of the Sultan. All murmured assent, and backed out of the room.

  The Grand Master sat in the Council Chamber of the Palace and prepared to receive the delegation. With him were the Piliers and the Conventual Bailiffs of all the langues. The Greek Bishop, Clement, and the Latin Bishop, Balestrieri, were in attendance as well. Tadini sat along the wall with several Knights Grand Cross.

  When the entire Council was seated, Philippe gaveled the meeting to order. It was with great reluctance that he had agreed to convene his knights. On the surface, he declared that he could not spare so many of his officers from the battlefield. But, in reality, his heart had already told him what he was about to hear.

  Bishop Balestrieri bowed to the Grand Master. Philippe nodded for him to speak. The Bishop rose from his place and walked to the center. He was used to talking to large groups of people, and made eye contact with every man in the room.

  “My Lord,” he said addressing Philippe, “brothers-in-arms. The time has come for me to speak to you for the people of Rhodes. We have asked much from them these nearly five months, and they have responded beyond all possible expectations. They have suffered grievously, and they have fought and died alongside the knights. They have lost fathers, mothers, and children. We are a small community, and so there is now no person on this island who has not been touched by the hand of Death.”

  Balestrieri paused, and let his words settle into the hearts of the knights. “Yesterday, a deputation of citizens came to see me and Bishop Clement. Though they were very afraid of what might befall them if they were perceived as entertaining treasonous thoughts— they have not failed to see the body parts displayed upon the battlements—they are more afraid of what will happen when the Sultan’s armies force their way into the city in a massive assault. They have heard that there have been envoys sent by the Sultan to allow us to surrender with honor. They have told me that the knights care more about the honor of the Order than the lives of the citizens. Though they would not say it to me, my Lord, I fear that if the Order is not prepared to make peace with the Sultan, that the citizens are prepared to make a separate peace.”

  The room was completely silent at these words. Philippe’s face reddened, and several of the knights began to shift in discomfort in their seats. Philippe held his temper in check. But Balestrieri was talking of overt rebellion. Dangerous talk.

  Balestrieri continued. “My Lord, the Order has been on this island for over two centuries. Your bonds to these people run deep. Their destiny is yours. And, though you may not care to admit it, your destiny is theirs. You have a grave responsibility to these people. They have gone far beyond any bounds of devotion to you in this fight. Do not, my Lord, ask them all to perish in a battle that cannot be won. They are not knights. Do not ask them to perish for your honor.”

  Tadini moved from his place along the wall. He tried to walk without using the cane that he now carried in place of his makeshift crutch. But, his knee was too unstable, and his wounds too fresh. After only two steps, he staggered, prevented from falling only through a quick rescue by young Valette. He recovered his balance, pulling his elbow from the grip of the knight. He leaned on his cane and spoke from the side of the room. Philippe motioned toward an empty chair, but Tadini shook his head.

  “My Lord, forgive me for what I must tell you. But, you would want only the truth from your loyal knights.” He looked around the room, and then returned his eyes to Philippe. “The enemy is already inside the city. The numbers are few today, but growing every new day. They are above the ground. They are in the tunnels. They have crossed each new enceinte. They have crossed our inner retrenchments. I would fight next to you with my last breath if that is your wish. But, when you make your decision, know well that our city is beyond…salvezza…” Tadini snapped his fingers, struggling for the right French word. “Salvation. Yes, beyond salvation.” He shrugged, and lowered his eyes. Then, he hobbled back to his place and leaned against the wall once again.

  Philippe waited for Tadini to return to his place before he spoke. “Mes Frères. Mes amis. Mes C
hevalières. Mes citoyens. I have heard what you say, and what you say is true. But, I have taken an oath to God, to Christ Almighty, that I would defend to death the honor and the position of our Order. And all of you here have taken that same oath. We, as knights, have lived our lives by that oath. We are all sworn to die in the service of Christ. The Holy Fathers here among us,” he said inclining his head toward Balestrieri and Clement, “have taken their own oaths in a different form. But, it is all the same. I am prepared to fight on, here in our home of two hundred years, until every drop of blood has seeped from our veins. Better to die in battle with honor than to surrender to the Infidel and live as slaves.”

  Several of the knights rose from their places and cried, “Here, here!”

  Philippe put up his hand, and continued. “If you will follow me to the battlements once more, I will lead you. If only we knights fight to the end, then so be it, and damned be the Rhodians who would become slaves of the Sultan. But, if you will deny your oaths to God, Jesus, and St. John, I don’t know what to think.” With those last words, the Grand Master sat back wearily on his seat and waited for a response. In his heart, he wanted overwhelming affirmation by the knights; he wanted to rush from the Palace and end it all with his brothers in one last glorious battle on the walls of Rhodes. And with Hélène dead, there was little more to lose.

  Breathing and the rustling of battle capes were the only sounds now. The knights stirred in their places; whispered words were exchanged. But, if Philippe were waiting for the call to arms, it did not come. Finally, a silence prevailed, and Fra Lopes de Pas, from the langue of Aragon, rose to speak.

  He moved to the center of the room and waited until he had Philippe’s attention. De Pas began in Spanish, but after only a few words, he started again in French. “Mon Seigneur, mes amis, Chevalières de St. Jean,” he said formally. “Everything we have heard here this morning is true. No false words were spoken. Our chances for victory over the enemy are gone. But, if the end must come, if we must go down to defeat, then we should guard that we do not make the enemy’s victory all the more splendid by our deaths. When all human hopes are gone, a wise man surrenders to necessity. There is no dishonor in that. The Spartan mother said to her son, ‘Come back with your shield, or on it.’ And Sparta is no more. No matter how praiseworthy our death might be, in the long run, it will be more damaging to the Holy Religion than our surrender. For, if we live to fight another day, then we have another chance to gain the field and to prevail. There will be no such chance if we all lie dead upon these ruined walls.”