Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  At once the defenders lowered their crossbows, placed a foot in the iron stirrup at the end of their weapons and strained to wind the drawstring back ready to load the next quarrel. The strongest of them were the first to shoot again and more of the Turks were struck down as they increased their pace to close up on the wall before more of them fell victim to the antiquated weapon.

  Thomas looked for the enemy commander and saw Mustafa Pasha’s large turban bobbing amid the drenched ranks of his men. The veteran general of the Sultan trudged forward, sword waving from side to side above his head. A small party of Janissary body-guards kept up with him, one of them holding aloft the personal standard of Suleiman and waving it from side to side so that the sodden horsetail crest would be more easily visible to the rest of the men.

  The first Turk reached the ditch to one side of the bastion and Thomas watched as he scrambled over the wet masonry, his robes hanging on his body like loose folds of skin. One of the crossbowmen on the wall beside the breach aimed down at him and shot a bolt into his back, just below his neck. The Turk fell face first and his legs began to twitch violently. More of his comrades followed, clothes, armour, skin and weapons sleek and glistening in the rain. Scores were struck down by the quarrels as they struggled over the rubble to close with the defenders. At the last moment the crossbowmen threw down their weapons and snatched up clubs, swords and pikes. The air around the bastion was filled with the thud of weapons striking shields, the scrape and clatter of blade on blade and the mingled war cries, curses and howls of agony from the wounded, all underscored by the hiss of rain and light pinging as the heavy drops burst on helmets and plate armour.

  ‘Stand ready!’ Romegas ordered those on the bastion and a moment later an assault ladder slapped against the parapet. Thomas raised his sword and stepped over to the ladder as a pair of dark- skinned hands grasped the top rung and a spiked helmet appeared. Thomas swung his sword down hard and the edge bit through the cloth of the man’s shoulder but was held by the chain-mail vest beneath. The impact drove the Turk’s body down and numbed his arm enough to loosen his grip on the ladder. With a grunt he swung off the ladder and hung there for an instant before the strength in his other hand gave out and he dropped out of sight. At once, another Turk took his place and clambered up, warily looking over the parapet.

  ‘Richard,’ Thomas called out. ‘The ladder! Use your pike. Quick, my boy!’

  The Turk raised a shield to protect his head as he struggled up the ladder. Thomas’s blade glanced off it and he drew the sword back to attempt a direct thrust instead. But the Turk was good and easily parried it aside. He reached a hand up on to the parapet in readiness to haul himself on to the bastion. There was a blur of movement as Richard lowered his pike and caught the crosspiece against the top rung, and thrust the ladder back with all his strength. The Turk’s eyes widened in alarm as he swayed back from the parapet and then, with a vigorous push from Richard, the ladder fell back into the breach, together with the three men who had been coming up behind.

  Hundreds of men were locked in a deadly fight along the line of the wall and Thomas could see that the weight of numbers must inevitably force the defenders back. More ladders were placed against the sides of the bastion and the Grand Master and the officers and men with him were drawn into the desperate battle to hold their ground. As Richard drove his pike into a man’s face, Thomas looked round and saw La Valette brace his feet as he lowered the shaft of his pike and advanced on a Janissary who had gained the top of his ladder and had already swung his foot down over the side of the parapet. The Grand Master drove his point forward and the Janissary just managed to swing his scimitar across in time to parry the pike. La Valette drew his weapon back and, as if he was practising on a drill ground, calmly thrust again. This time, he dropped the point at the last moment, so that the other man’s blade failed to make contact and the point of the weapon stabbed into his stomach. The Turk’s face contorted in agony and he dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the pike as La Valette pressed home. The

  Janissary toppled back over the parapet and the point ripped free from his wound. Romegas pushed his commander aside, grasped the top of the ladder and wrenched it to one side, unbalancing those below who shouted in alarm as the ladder fell into the breach.

  Looking down from the bastion Thomas saw that the defenders were already being forced back from the breastworks in several places. At once the Turks pushed the stones forward, collapsing the crude obstacles before clambering over the ruins to press the defenders back. Then his attention was drawn to another ladder appearing close by. He slashed at his enemy’s hand the moment it appeared above the edge of the parapet, cutting through the knuckles before splintering the wooden rung beneath. There was a howl of agony and the ruined hand was snatched back. Again Richard used his pike to thrust the ladder away from the wall.

  ‘Over here!’ Romegas bellowed and Thomas turned to see the senior knight and two sergeants battling several men who had managed to gain a foothold on the far side of the bastion. Thomas turned to Richard.

  ‘Go! Help Romegas. I can hold this position.’

  A flicker of concern crossed the young man’s rain-streaked face before he nodded and turned to run across the bastion to assist Romegas. There was a clatter of wood against stone as another ladder appeared in front of Thomas. The Turk who scaled it wore a spiked helmet with a turban tightly wound about the rim and his eyes glared above a thick beard dripping water on to his breastplate. He was waist high to the parapet and raising his shield when Thomas struck. The blade forced the shield down before it deflected to the side and with a sharp clatter the end broke off.

  ‘Ha!’ the Turk exclaimed and immediately swung his leg over the parapet and drew his scimitar. Thomas saw that only a scant eighteen inches of blade, ending in a jagged point, was left to him. Too little for a conventional fight. He launched himself at the Turk. His left foot slipped on the wet flagstones and there was no impetus to his blow when he collided with the other man. They were pressed together, against the parapet, face to face. The Turk’s thin lips parted in a snarl as he struggled to wrench himself free and win enough space to wield his scimitar. Thomas tried to use his left hand to grasp his opponent and hold on. A fiery agony shot through the limb and he had to release his grip and let the arm hang uselessly. He stretched his right arm out, angled the broken blade in and thrust it under the rim of the Turk’s shield. The tip jarred against the bottom of the breastplate and Thomas drew it back, aimed lower and thrust again, feeling it drive home into the Turk’s groin.

  His opponent let out an explosive groan and spittle struck Thomas in the face. Then the Turk hammered the side of Thomas’s helmet with the hilt of his scimitar, smashing his head again and again as Thomas desperately worked his blade deep into his opponent’s vital organs. Then his left foot slipped again and he fell back and the Turk came with him, landing heavily on Thomas and driving the air from his lungs. As the Turk tried to rise, Thomas wrenched the sword to one side and the man’s face contorted with agony. But with a huge effort he pulled himself up and rolled to the side. The blade came free of the terrible wound with a sucking noise. Blood smeared the hilt of Thomas’s weapon and covered his mantlet as far as the wrist. The Turk’s wound was mortal and he knew it as he loomed over Thomas, balanced on his knees. He batted the broken sword aside with his shield then his eyes glinted with rage as he raised his scimitar and aimed the point at Thomas’s face.

  For an instant the terrible din around him seemed to fade to silence and the dull gleam of the sword point above seemed to be all that existed for Thomas; every ounce of his flesh froze in absolute terror.

  Then the Turk lurched back as the point of a pike stabbed into his throat. He collapsed against the parapet, gurgling as blood spurted from the wound and sprayed from his lips. Thomas struggled to his feet as a hand supported his arm and helped him up. La Valette looked into his face with a concerned expression.

  ‘Are you wounded, Sir Th
omas?’

  He was badly shaken but felt no pain other than the burning sensation in his left arm. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then find yourself another weapon.’ La Valette clasped his pike, ready to fight, as he glanced round the bastion and then over the parapet. Thomas could see that the Turks were gaining footholds on the remaining sections of the wall and steadily forcing their way through the breaches. The weight of their numbers was proving impossible for the defenders to contain.

  ‘We cannot hold the line,’ said La Valette. ‘We must fall back to the inner wall.’ He turned to look for Romegas. The senior knight and Richard were just finishing off a Turk who had climbed on to the tower. They tipped the body down on to those still attempting to scale the bastion and a quick thrust of Richard’s pike sent the ladder reeling back. For the moment the bastion was cleared, although two of the bodies lying amid the puddles on the ground wore the surcoats of the Order. Another lay propped up against the parapet, his face a bloody mask of crushed flesh and bone, his body and limbs trembling uncontrollably.

  ‘Romegas!’ La Valette called. ‘On me!’

  As soon as the knight reached him La Valette pointed towards the men desperately struggling to hold the line along the wall. ‘Give the signal to fall back to the inner wall once I have taken my position there by the gate, together with the standard. You stay here with the others and hold the bastion.’

  Romegas gestured towards one of the bodies on the ground and Thomas saw the standard lying beside the corpse. ‘He’s done for, sir.’

  La Valette nodded and turned to Thomas. ‘Then the honour falls to you. Take up the standard, then you and your squire come with me.’

  Thomas called Richard over and picked up the standard in his good hand and rested it against his shoulder. The three of them descended the stairs to the base of the bastion. Two men were guarding the entrance and they heaved the iron bolts back at La Valette’s order, and pushed the sturdy door open. Thomas and Richard followed the Grand Master as he crossed the open ground behind the line of men still fighting to hold the Turks back. There was a narrow gap left open by the wagon, just wide enough for two men to go through at a time, and they passed inside the last defence of Birgu. Grunting with the effort, La Valette clambered on to the fighting step and Richard helped Thomas up beside him before joining them himself.

  La Valette turned towards the bastion and raised his hand and waved. Romegas waved back and a moment later the sharp blast of a trumpet cut through the sounds of battle and the rain. Those men who were behind the fighting line immediately turned and joined the wounded making for the safety of the inner wall. Those still fighting began to disengage, backing warily away from the enemy before turning to hurry down the steps from the wall or scramble away over the loose rubble towards the clear ground.

  As soon as the Turks realised what was happening a cheer rippled along the battle line and they surged forward, desperate to pursue and overwhelm the defenders and put an end to the dreadful siege that had cost the lives of so many of their comrades. They poured into the breaches, cutting down those too slow to answer the signal to fall back or too maddened by battle rage to retreat, spitting their defiance into the faces of the Turks until they perished under the savage blows of enemy blades.

  ‘Here, take my dagger.’

  Thomas turned to Richard and saw the handle extended to him. He nodded his thanks for the weapon and shifted the standard to his left, hooked his leg round the base of the staff and then tucked the shaft against his left shoulder.

  Richard lowered the point of his pike over the rough stonework of the parapet and stared grimly towards the enemy struggling down the piles of rubble towards the open ground. To his left, twenty yards beyond the Grand Master, Thomas saw Maria helping a soldier climb over the wall. More were hurrying up the ladders and on to the inner wall, while others hurried through the gap beside the wagon. La Valette watched intently as the last of the defenders and wounded made for the ladders. The first of the Turks had reached the open ground and began to race after them. Thomas heard the dull whack of a crossbow and saw one of the Turks throw up his arms and tumble forward as a quarrel shattered his knee. More bolts darted across the open ground, most finding their mark at such close range. Those Turks alert to the danger hunched down and raised their shields, and came on more warily. It bought the defenders a sliver of time in which to reach the ladders.

  Just then Mustafa Pasha appeared in one of the breaches, together with his standard bearer. He thrust his scimitar towards the inner wall and shrieked a command to his men. The cry was taken up and the Turks charged forward. A handful of men still stood at the bottom of each ladder, waiting their turn to climb to safety. Some turned towards the enemy and lowered their pikes, or swung their swords and clubs in preparation to strike.

  ‘Raise the ladders!’ La Valette called out. ‘Quickly!’

  There were cries of despair from the men still on the far side, and the last few that could raced up the rungs and threw themselves over the parapet. Then the ladders were pulled up by their comrades. Some of the men still on the other side clung on and had to be shaken loose. Thomas saw one of the ladders fall to the side, a gift to the enemy.

  ‘Close the gate!’ La Valette shouted to the men waiting by the wagon and they put their shoulders to the timbered frame and heaved it across the small gap, sealing the opening, before securing it in place with chains. Then they climbed up on to the bed of the wagon and took up their crossbows to shoot into the bedraggled horde charging towards them. All along the final line of defence the crossbowmen took a last chance to pick off the Turks and scores more fell into the mud and puddles, pierced by the deadly bolts. Thomas caught sight of one last defender in a futile struggle to reach safety before he was engulfed by the enemy. The man had been wounded in the leg and limped as fast as he could, one arm reaching out to his comrades on the wall, imploring them to save him. Then he tripped and fell. At once a bare-headed man in animal skins rushed over to him and raised a spear in both hands. The soldier pushed himself up, his face plastered with mud, mouth hanging open in a last cry. Then the Turk rammed the head of his spear down between his victim’s shoulder blades. The point burst out of his chest and the man’s face contorted in agony before he collapsed, instantly lost from view as the enemy surged over him.

  There were enough men on the inner wall to displace most of the women and children and they dropped back behind the fighting step and snatched up rocks and stones to hurl over the wall. With shrill cries of hatred they threw their missiles and Thomas saw them clatter off the helmets and shields of the enemy. But some struck home, striking men in the face, injuring many of the unarmoured fanatics who had joined Suleiman’s army to kill the enemies of Islam and find martyrdom for themselves. Then the Turks reached the wall and cut down the last of the defenders trapped there before they jabbed their spears at the faces looming above them.

  Thomas saw La Valette lean forward and thrust his pike into the shoulder of a man below, then wrench the point back and thrust again. Richard cried out as a spear point caught in his sleeve and then cut into the flesh of his arm. His jerkin ripped as he tore his arm free and stabbed his pike into the man who had wounded him. For a short period the Turks were caught tightly against the base of the wall, easy prey for those above them who thrust and stabbed into the tightly packed mass of robes and armour. The first of the men carrying assault ladders forced their way through the throng and ran the ladders up against the wall. At once their comrades began to climb, desperate to get at the defenders of Birgu.

  Thomas raised his dagger as a ladder clattered against the wall to his right, just between himself and Richard. It swayed a moment as the first of the Turks swarmed up. Thomas leaned forward and stabbed at his hand. The Turk seemed to ignore the pain; he hauled himself up and his wild eyes beneath the rim of his helmet stared at Thomas with hatred. He pulled his hand free with a rush of blood and drew his scimitar. His blade arced towards Thomas’s neck and he just h
ad time to throw his weight to one side and duck the blow that would surely have struck his head off if he had not moved. The Turk shouted a curse and made to swing again. Before he could, a rock caught him on the bridge of his nose and blood spurted from his nostrils. He blinked and shook his head. Richard swung the butt of his pike and knocked him back amid the swords, spears and spiked helmets of his comrades.

  Mustafa Pasha urged his men on, his sword punching out, his mouth stretched wide as he bellowed encouragement. Then he moved forward towards the inner wall, his bodyguard parting the press before him. For a moment Thomas could only follow his progress by the horsehair standard weaving above the sea of helmets, turbans, bare heads, points of spears and sword blades.

  ‘Sir,’ he shouted to La Valette and pointed out Suleiman’s standard. ‘Look there!’

  The Grand Master followed the direction Thomas indicated and saw that the enemy commander was making directly towards him. ‘He means to kill me.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘You must get off the wall, sir.’

  ‘No. Our fate hangs by a thread. I must stay here, where my people can see me.’

  La Valette turned away as a spear thrust glanced off his shoulder plate. One of the Turks had climbed up on to the shoulders of his comrades to strike at the Grand Master, and now La Valette coolly turned his pike on the man and ran him through.

  Thomas watched the steady progress of the enemy’s standard as it picked its way closer. Then the sea of faces before him parted and a squad of Janissaries pushed through, making space for their commander and his personal bodyguard, tall, well-built warriors, in fine armour and carrying heavy scimitars - hand-picked men from the elite corps of Suleiman’s army. Two of them grabbed a ladder from their comrades and placed it against the wall, directly in front of Thomas and the standard of the Order of St John. Now he could see Mustafa Pasha, his weathered face wet with rain as he shouted orders to his men and pointed at Thomas. The first of his men rushed up the ladder. Thomas stabbed at him with the dagger but the Janissary was quick and dodged the blow. He caught Thomas’s wrist in his hand and clamped tightly as he continued up the last rung and swung his muddy boot over the parapet. He reached for his scimitar. Thomas tried to pull himself free but the other man was too strong for him and his lips parted in a cruel smile.