Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

Thomas wondered what the Frenchman meant but he did not like his mocking tone and would not rise to the bait. There was no time anyway, the enemy was drawing closer and they had to return to the rest of the men.

  ‘Come on, we have to go.’

  They stayed low as they crept away from the rocks and hurried back to the ambush site. A pale glow was spreading along the eastern horizon and by the time the enemy reached the position, the first rays of the sun would be in their eyes, making it harder for them to detect any signs of danger. Thomas was pleased there was no sign or sound of the men as they approached and it was only at the last moment that the tousled blond hair of Von Harsteiner rose up from behind the wall of a pen close to the farm.

  ‘Are they coming?’ the German asked eagerly.

  ‘They are.’ La Riviere smiled. ‘And there will be plenty to go round.’

  A brief look of anxiety flitted across Thomas’s expression. The Frenchman seemed to have a reckless streak that might jeopardise the success of the ambush. He was too keen to fight the enemy. The task that La Valette had set them depended upon patience, stealth and a willingness to retreat the moment any skirmish threatened to get out of hand. They were to take prisoners, not supply them.

  Once they had retrieved their mounts Thomas and La Riviere joined the party of squires on the left of the line. The knights at the other end, beyond the line of footsoldiers, were under the command of Von Harsteiner. The men stood ready and waiting, senses alert for the approach of the enemy. Thomas spared a quick glance at Richard; he was a few yards away, crouching behind a boulder, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  They did not have long to wait. A single figure appeared at the top of the ridge and cautiously advanced along the lane, peering right and left. He wore a conical helmet rising in a spike and carried a spear. As he reached the farm, he paused and looked over his surroundings carefully. At one point Thomas was certain that the Turk was looking directly at him and he kept perfectly still, waiting for the man to raise the alarm. Then he turned away and Thomas let out a soft sigh of relief. In the distance the sounds of battle from the direction of de Robles’s force intensified and helped to cover up any whinny from the horses, or the scrape of a hoof on rock. The Turkish scout suddenly left the track and entered the farm. They heard the sound of furniture being moved and then he emerged from the back of the farm with a couple of stools. Moving a short distance from the building he smashed one of the stools on a rock and started to build a fire.

  Thomas looked over his shoulder and saw the golden hue along the horizon. He edged towards the French knight and whispered, ‘If he remains there, he’ll see us as the sun rises. We have to get rid of him.’

  ‘We could take him prisoner,’ Richard suggested. ‘And return to Birgu.’

  ‘We need an officer,’ La Riviere countered. ‘And the enemy needs a sharp lesson. But first we must deal with him.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Richard said softly.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘No. You stay here. I’ll do it.’

  For an instant La Riviere looked surprised and then he gestured towards the abandoned farmhouse. ‘All right then, be my guest, Englishman.’

  Drawing his dagger, Thomas crept forward, picking his way carefully through the stunted undergrowth which concealed the knights on the left flank of the line. Ahead of him the scout continued to arrange the splintered lengths of timber in a crude cone, and then tore apart some rags he had taken from the farm and pressed them into the gaps he had left between the lengths of wood. As he worked he frequently looked up, scanning the ground in the direction of the main harbour and occasionally looking back towards the ridge as he waited for his comrades to arrive. Thomas reached the small bam, little more than a shed, and moved slowly along its length until he reached the corner and could peer round to spy on the enemy soldier.

  Once the fire was complete the Turk stood up, stretched his shoulders and then crossed the farmyard and leaned on the low stone wall that bordered the lane, presenting his back. Thomas waited a moment to see if he moved, but the scout remained where he was. He glanced both ways down the lane, and then settled on staring towards Mdina, where the spire of the church stood dark against the pink smear of the dawn. Thomas drew his dagger in an underhand grip and hunched lower as he paced towards the Turk, casing each foot down so as not to crunch any gravel under his boots. The sound of gunfire to the east was diminishing to a handful of parting shots as de Robles and his men broke contact and fell back towards Birgu. Then, when Thomas was no more than ten feet from the scout, a flicker of movement to his left drew his eyes and he saw a standard edging up over the ridge. The Turk noticed it too an instant later and half turned in that direction. The moment lie saw Thomas his eyes widened in alarm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  There was no time to think. Thomas launched himself forward, drawing the dagger back a fraction as his arm muscles tensed, ready to deliver the blow. The scout turned quickly and his surprise caused only the briefest of hesitations. He threw up his left arm to protect his face as his right hand snatched at the ivory handle of his dagger. The thin curved blade was out of its sheath at the moment Thomas struck.

  There was no finesse in his attack, no attempt to duel with his adversary, just a headlong charge intended to smash into the scout and knock him down. The other man was slightly built and the impact drove him back against the wall. Thomas thrust his dagger in hard and the blade tore through cloth and flesh and the scout gasped in pain. But the blow glanced off his ribs; the wound bled freely but it was not disabling. With a growl of anger the scout swung his knife arm round and the blade clattered off Thomas’s shoulder plate and deflected up, the point grazing through his hair and tearing his scalp with a searing pain. Thomas struck again, and this time buried the blade in the soft tissue of the other man’s stomach. He let out a deep groan and then smashed his fist into Thomas’s face. Instantly his vision blurred and he stumbled back, out of range of the Turk’s knife. His heel caught on a small rock and he stumbled and fell heavily on his back, driving the breath from his lungs.

  Thomas gasped softly and cursed himself for failing to make a clean kill. Now he was at his enemy’s mercy and at any moment he expected to feel the sharp, lethal blow of the scout’s dagger. Then, as his vision began to clear, he raised himself up on his elbows and drew up his legs to get back on his feet. He saw the scout, ten feet away, on hands and knees as he desperately tried to scramble away and flee towards his comrades. Glancing back, he saw Thomas. He struggled on to his feet, one hand clutching at his stomach, the other, still holding the dagger, braced on top of the wall. He began to move towards the lane, towards his comrades, trying to shout, but the effort was too much agony and he gritted his teeth and concentrated on making his escape instead.

  Still struggling to breathe, Thomas went after him, staggering across the farmyard. His chest felt as if it was being pressed by a great weight and he began to feel dizzy. He paused and shook his head to try and shake the nausea off and then saw that the scout had increased his lead, even with his wound. He might yet escape. The Turk glanced back and came to the same realisation and his lips parted in a brief grin before his features twisted in agony. With a muttered curse he stumbled on.

  ‘No . . .’ Thomas whispered in furious despair. He clenched his spare fist and forced himself to step out after the scout, and drew up gasping after only a few paces. Then he was aware of movement and someone ran past him. There was a blur as his arm swept back and then forwards and a soft thud from the direction of the Turk who had just reached the lane. With a moan he dropped to his knees and his left hand groped up his back towards the dark haft of the knife that had struck him just under the shoulder blade.

  Richard turned to Thomas. ‘Are you injured?’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Winded

  Satisfied, Richard turned to the scout and trotted up behind him. He raised his boot and kicked the man savagely behind the knee so that he collapsed. Reaching down, Richard bra
ced his boot on the scout’s back and pulled the knife from his back. In one quick movement he grasped the Turk’s helmet and jerked his head up before cutting his throat. His body shuddered and his boots flailed on the dry track. Richard did not wait for his movements to cease before wiping his blade on his enemy’s robes and then returning it to its sheath. Then he grabbed one of the Turk’s sandalled feet and dragged him back into the farmyard.

  ‘Help me,’ he hissed to Thomas.

  Still recovering, Thomas sheathed his dagger and took the other foot. Together they hauled the body towards the small barn.

  ‘What happened?’

  Thomas looked up to see La Riviere half crouching by the corner of the bam.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ Richard answered. ‘We dealt with the scout.’

  ‘So I can see. What are you doing?’

  ‘We’ll hide the body in the bam, then get back to our positions.’

  ‘Wait.’ La Riviere straightened up and turned to look at the lane. He pointed to a gap in the wall, where some stones had collapsed opposite the men waiting to launch the ambush. ‘Put the body over there, leaning up against the wall on the far side of the lane.’

  ‘What?’ Richard frowned. ‘They’ll see him.’

  ‘Precisely!’ La Riviere smiled. ‘Do it. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Richard glanced at Thomas who nodded and they dragged the body out and sat it up against the wall. La Riviere went over to the scorched remains of the pigs and drew his dagger. He worked briefly and then hurried over to the others.

  ‘Here. The finishing touch to our little trap.’

  The French knight leaned over the body and forced open the jaws with one hand and then stuffed something into the mouth. A moment later he straightened up with a satisfied nod. ‘That should do.’

  Thomas looked down and saw the snout of a pig protruding from the stretched lips of the dead Turk and he understood La Riviere’s purpose at once.

  ‘Why have you done that?’ Richard asked softly, in a revolted tone.

  La Riviere chuckled. ‘Explain it to him, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘To the Muslims the pig is a dirty animal. They will not eat its flesh. When the comrades of this man see him, they’ll be outraged. The first thing they will do is drop their guard while they seek to remove this effrontery from their sight.’

  ‘Quite so,’ La Riviere nodded, then looked round towards the ridge. The others followed the direction of his gaze and Thomas could clearly see the head of the approaching column cresting the ridge, burnished by the first rays of the rising sun.

  ‘They’re looking into the light,’ Richard said. ‘With luck they haven’t seen anything to cause them any alarm.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ La Riviere ordered. ‘Stay low.’

  He led the way out of the lane and hurried across the small field to the boulders where his men were concealed. They took the helmets hanging from their saddle horns and quickly put them on, fastened the chinstraps, and stood by their horses ready to mount and charge as soon as La Riviere gave the command. Thomas had recovered from his winding and his lips set in a thin line of bitter self-reproach. He had made a mess of dispatching the enemy scout. But for Richard, the Turk might have escaped and warned his comrades about the trap that awaited them. It pained Thomas to have had his squire come to his rescue. The days when he was a formidable warrior were gone and this was perhaps his last opportunity to do something of note before he was good for little more than telling tales of past glories to young boys at the fireside.

  He shut his eyes tightly and forced the shame from his mind. A soldier must never be distracted before a fight. This was a lesson that his father’s sword master had drilled into him from the very first. A soldier, yes, Thomas reflected, but for a knight there were other codes and standards to live by. Chivalry above all. Yet there was no place for such moral strictures in the ageless war between the Order and Islam. All that mattered was the destruction of the enemy wherever and whenever he was encountered.

  With sudden insight Thomas knew that this was the real attraction of the Order for men such as himself and La Riviere. The wars that waged within Christendom, the vicious sectionalism and rivalry of kings and princes were all poor shadows of causes worth fighting for, worth killing for . . . worth dying for. The Order alone provided a simple moral clarity. It pitched one world against another. There wore no doubts about the cause to trouble a man, or at least a man with religion, Thomas thought wryly. He had long struggled with his faith, felt it slipping from his grasp as he had grown from a boy into a man. Despite all his prayers, there had never come the faintest reply, let alone a holy vision, or miracle. Just an emptiness that grew within, always presenting a stark choice: either this life was all there was and a man came from dust and went to dust and accepted the brevity of his existence, or he chose to perform deeds worthy of preserving in the record of human achievement. This he understood — he was here to give some meaning to his being. He fought not for the glory of God but for the survival of the world of those who believed, and those forced to endure their non-belief in silence, like himself. For them he was prepared to fight and die. He hardened his heart and refocused his mind as he watched the enemy approach.

  The Turks came marching down the lane with a carefree boldness, talking and laughing loudly amongst themselves, their hearts and minds filled with the swaggering confidence of men at the start of a campaign whose outcome they did not doubt. They came in strength, possessed of the mightiest cannon in the world and the cleverest siege engineers, at the bidding of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, and blessed by Allah. Thomas could well understand their high spirits, and also the shrewd mind of the Grand Master who knew how important it was to strike down this confidence from the very first moment that the Turks set foot upon Maltese soil.

  As the enemy approached, Thomas saw that there were no more than a hundred of them, armed with swords and shields and a handful with pikes. They wore no armour and apart from the shields their only protection was a polished brass helmet with a mail curtain to protect their neck and shoulders. Their robes were worn loose to ease movement and limit the discomfort of the summer heat. At their head rode an officer on a grey horse whose reins and saddle were adorned with silver braid. The officer’s robes were of dark silk with white stars and crescents sewn on the flowing material. He wore a black turban, and his thin beard and haughty, erect posture in the saddle betrayed his youth. His lack of any watchfulness and failure to send forward a vanguard also betrayed his inexperience.

  Thomas looked at La Riviere and saw that the French knight was watching the enemy company intently, all trace of his earlier levity gone. He sensed Thomas’s attention and glanced briefly at him without any expression, before turning back to the Turks. The sound of their light-hearted talk filled the dawn air and drowned out the song of a handful of birds in the scattered brush about the farm. As they approached the entrance to the humble collection of buildings, the officer caught sight of the scout’s body propped up against the wall that bounded the lane. He drew in his reins sharply, threw up a hand and shouted a command. The column shuffled to a halt and their tongues stilled as they craned their necks to see what had caused them to stop. The officer rattled out an order and the leading four men of the column lowered their packs on to the track and cautiously moved past their officer and approached the body.

  La Riviere placed his hand on his saddle pommel and stood poised to place his left foot in the stirrup to mount his horse. But his eyes were still fixed on the enemy.

  A moment later there was a cry of horror and then another, but this time enraged. More shouts followed and the young officer spurred his horse forward to join his men. He swung down from the saddle and snatched the severed pig snout from the scout’s mouth and hurled it over the wall. Despite having no orders, the column began to edge forward to better see the cause of the outburst.

  La Riviere made to mount and Thomas whispered fiercely, ‘Wait. Let them fill the
gap before we attack.’

  The Frenchman hesitated a moment, tom by the desire to charge on his enemy and the good sense of Thomas’s advice, then he nodded and kept still. As more of the Turks became aware of what had been done to the scout, their cries of outrage increased and they began to surge around the officer standing over the body. Thomas sensed the tension in the men around him and along the line concealed behind the rocks and stunted scrub.

  ‘Just a moment longer,’ he muttered as the column became more disordered.

  ‘Open fire!’ a voice cried out from the left.

  Thomas’s head snapped round, mouth opened to countermand the order before he realised it was pointless.

  The air filled with the frizzle of powder in priming pans and then the deafening explosions as the arquebuses spat flame and smoke. The Turks had turned in alarm at the shouted order and now several of them tumbled back into the closely packed mob as they were struck down by the heavy lead shot.

  ‘Charge!’ La Riviere bellowed.

  Thomas, Richard and the squires scrambled into their saddles, drew their swords and spurred their horses from cover. To his left Thomas saw Von Harsteiner slapping the flat of his sword against the side of his horse as he led the knights on the other flank. The German was bellowing incoherently as he charged and Thomas realised that it was he who had shouted the order to fire. Between the two flanks the footmen lowered their arquebuses and snatched up their hand weapons and raced towards the Turks who were still too stunned by the attack to react. As they entered the lane, both parties of horsemen swerved their mounts and turned on the Turks and charged home. Grasping the reins tightly in his left hand, Thomas leaned forward and lowered the tip of his sword, arm braced to strike as he bore down on the swirl of robes and terrified faces trapped in the lane. The nearest of the enemy panicked at the sight of the steel-clad riders and turned and tried to flee. Some clambered over the stone wall, others ran into the heart of the mob, causing further confusion. A few stood their ground, shields raised and swords ready to strike.