Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "No" replied Skiouros, flipping his sword around with a surprising speed and driving the point into the man's neck just below the chin, pushing hard and driving in the steel until he felt the blade meet the resistance of the back of the corsair's skull.

  Something had happened and Skiouros would never be able to put it into words if he was asked, but it felt as though he had been pushing at an impenetrable wicker screen, unable to overcome it and fighting as hard as he could, and then suddenly he had burst through it. He had battled something and come out of the other side.

  Something was different, though only time would tell what.

  Pulling his blade out of the shuddering corpse, Skiouros realised that the battle was over. The Turkish corsairs were crossing back to their own vessel, delivering a last blow or two on the way.

  Had they won? Surely that was impossible.

  His eyes scanned the deck and took in the large number of bodies, most of whom bore the drab work clothes of the Venetian sailors.

  No. They hadn't won. They had lost. Almost critically so.

  A voice cut through the rapidly diminishing din - a voice speaking in fluent Italian, slowly and clearly enough that Skiouros found that he could follow what was said without any difficulty. The speaker had a Turkish accent - an Anatolian one.

  "Lay down your weapons and surrender your vessel to Etci Hassan, Reis of the kadirga Yarim Ay. Submit and there is a chance that you will live. Refuse and you will all meet your infidel God with salt water inflating your lungs."

  Skiouros looked around and saw Parmenio and Nicolo nearby, both displaying minor wounds and both blood-stained, side-by-side. He followed their gaze and his eyes fell upon the Turkish captain, standing on the raised deck to the stern of the war galley. He stood next to a small crew of corsairs, who crowded around a bronze 'sahalaz' cannon, angled - if Skiouros was any judge - such that its shot would punch through the Isabella's hull just below the waterline.

  "I would regret losing the opportunity of plunder" the pirate captain added, "but my hold is already packed, and I would rather not lose any more men. You have until the count of ten for your officers to step forward and surrender, else I will give the command to fire and we will watch you drown like the Christian dogs you are."

  Skiouros turned back to Parmenio and realised as he saw the captain's expression that there was no choice other than surrender.

  Rome and the usurping prince Cem had never seemed so far from his grasp.

  Chapter Six - Of captives and victims

  Parmenio took a deep breath. Skiouros could see in his expression the hopelessness of an anticipated total loss. The captain had staked everything on this voyage with its large commissions, and he had now lost it all. He might not die - at least not yet. As a captain, he could be valuable or useful to the Turks as a prisoner. But whether he survived or not, he had lost his cargo and his ship, effectively bankrupting him.

  That was all moot, of course.

  Though Parmenio might be useful for now, the corsair captain would not be able to keep him around, providing living, breathing evidence of his piracy against the Republic of Venice, a nation with whom the Ottoman Empire was currently enjoying a rare fragile peace. The captain's future looked no less grim than any other of the Isabella's crewmen, even should he receive a temporary stay of execution.

  Skiouros looked around as Parmenio stepped forward, making himself known to the Turkish captain. There were perhaps a dozen or so men of the Isabella left moving on deck. Less than half. The grim looks on their faces told him everything he needed to know: their fate would not be pretty.

  The corsair captain had stated that his hold was packed. If he had taken that much booty already, then his galley-slave complement would also likely be full, and he would not be looking for chained rowers. That meant that unless a captive displayed some sort of value, the Turks would have no use for them. At best they would be shackled and taken to a seething hive of depravity and sold as slaves. More likely they would be dispatched quickly and efficiently.

  The only figures that stood proud - if equally grim - were Parmenio, Nicolo and Orsini. The former pair held the value of experienced ship's officers and might well see another day. Orsini might be worth a ransom to the Corsairs.

  Skiouros, of course, had no more value than any of the ordinary sailors.

  The captain cleared his voice to address the Turk. "I am Parmenio, son of Christos of Durazzo and captain of the Venetian caravel Isabella. As a son of the Republic, it is my duty to remind you that a treaty exists between our governments and this assault constitutes an act of war."

  Skiouros felt his heart skip a beat. The sort of Ottoman captain who would launch such an attack was hardly likely to be swayed by such rhetoric and may well become homicidally enraged by such a reminder.

  An uncomfortable silence settled on the ships.

  "Three!" snapped the Turk.

  "There is still the opportunity to label this a misunderstanding and go our separate ways."

  Skiouros had to hand it to Parmenio. The man seemed calm and in control, despite having no cards left even to bluff with.

  "Two!"

  Parmenio's shoulders slumped slightly.

  "On behalf of my crew and passengers, I hereby surrender the Isabella and her cargo to you in the knowledge that a good son of Allah will honour his captives and avoid excessive cruelty."

  Again, Skiouros winced at the captain's vain attempt to see to the survival of his crew. Don't push him too far, Parmenio.

  The Turk turned to his man and rattled something off in Turkish. Parmenio and Nicolo looked across to Skiouros for a translation, but he shook his head imperceptibly, indicating that he'd not heard the exchange. A moment later, the corsair captain turned back to the defeated crew.

  "The unranked crew of this caravel will assemble in the bow, unarmed, to be assessed by Mehmi here. He does not speak your vile tongue, but he is an excellent judge of livestock." The short one called Mehmi smiled unpleasantly, displaying the black space where his two front top teeth were missing, a smile made all the more repulsive by the scar that ran from the corner of his nose to his jaw, heavily creasing one side of his face.

  "The officers and passengers will come aboard the Yarim Ay, unarmed and bearing any documentation as to their identity, as well as the ship's manifest and crew listings. I give you three minutes to assemble the appropriate papers. Should there be any sign of betrayal on the part of any man, I will have the cannon fired and we will watch you all drown."

  Parmenio stepped back to join Nicolo in a position where the sails and rigging almost obscured them from their captors. Quietly, the captain addressed Nicolo and the purser nodded before walking towards the stern, pausing as he passed Skiouros and Orsini.

  "Come with me" he hissed to the pair as he strode on.

  Surprised, the young Greek scurried along behind as the purser disappeared into the ship's gloomy interior, Orsini walking purposefully with them.

  "What are we doing?" Skiouros hissed. "You heard that bastard. He'll sink the ship and drown everyone if we get up to anything."

  Nicolo paused in the corridor and frowned at him.

  "I had formed the impression that you'd had something of a misspent youth, Skiouros. A risk taker. Maybe a thief? I don't know. But whatever you've been, you need to start taking risks right now, 'cause if you don't you'll drown like the rest."

  Skiouros shook his head. "They'll probably save you two and Orsini - you've slave value if nothing else."

  "You too. Come on. The captain has an idea, but we've only got three minutes. Go to the captain's cabin and look in the leather wallet on the top shelf. Find the book with the manifest in for me."

  Skiouros frowned at him.

  "Just go. And master Orsini, you had best fetch whatever papers you have to prove your connections."

  The Italian noble nodded and slipped into his room. Skiouros moved to the end of the corridor and entered the cabin shared by the captain and his
purser, scanning the walls for the shelf. Finding it, he shuffled the leather case from the dusty surface, sliding it down and onto the captain's cot. As he undid the catches and retrieved a heavy bound book from within, Nicolo appeared through the door, laden with goods. Skiouros turned to him.

  "Is this the book you… hey is that my stuff?"

  "Not any more, it's not. And get rid of that sword. Dead give-away, that is. And yes, that's the manifest. Pass it here."

  Confused and perturbed, Skiouros handed the heavy tome to the purser and began to unbuckle his sword belt, regretfully.

  "How much do you know about the church?" Nicolo asked quietly.

  Skiouros blinked. "What?"

  "The Church. God? Jesus? Holy mother Mary? I presume you've heard of them?"

  "Of course. I've been studying the Pope and his people this past year and I…"

  "Not my church, you hare-brain. Yours!"

  Again, Skiouros frowned. "What? Well, more than some people, I suppose. Spent a lot of time in churches recently, and in the company of monks too."

  "Good" Nicolo said, and cast a small bundle of dark rags at him. Skiouros dropped the sword he was still holding reflexively, in order to catch the bundle.

  "Put those on" the purser hissed. "Quickly, now. We've less than a minute."

  Skiouros stared down at the rags and realised with a sinking heart that the strange lump in the pile was the drum-shaped skouphos hat of an orthodox priest.

  "Oh come on!"

  "Parmenio's idea. It's a gamble. Some corsairs are vehemently anti-Christian and will go out of their way to destroy priests and holy men, but some are less devout and more loot-oriented. The latter might think twice about just executing a man of God - even the wrong God. Sailors are a superstitious lot, believe me. It's a chance - a small one, admittedly - but a chance. Now put that on and start thinking Godly."

  Orsini appeared in the doorway, cradling a leather folder with the emblem of his family branded into it. "Time to go, gentlemen" he said quietly and purposefully. Nicolo turned to look at him as he rifled through the book, looking for the current journey manifest.

  "Master Cesare Orsini, meet Father Skiouros, a monk of the Cretan Vrontisiou monastery, on a cultural mission to the Holy Father in Rome."

  "This will never work" Skiouros grumbled, ripping off his expensive doublet and letting it fall to the floor. Nicolo kicked the offending evidence of a clothing change under the bed.

  "You speak Greek as a native. You know a bit about the daily life of the church. You're thin and reedy like a monk. And you don't have to be letter perfect on your creed - I'm sure the Turks won't spot any cock-ups. You can pull it off, 'cause if you don't, you're going for a long swim." The purser turned to Orsini. "What do you think?"

  "It might work. So long as the captain's not a crusading type, and the crew are not questioned over him, of course."

  Nicolo shrugged. "They won't bother speaking to the crew, especially when they've checked the manifest." As Skiouros shrugged himself into the dusty, smelly vestments, grunting with the effort and the unpleasantness, Nicolo found the entry for the passengers and added the honorific 'Fr.' to the name 'Skiouros - Candia'. "There you are: we officially took on a monk back in port. Just remember not to curse or spit or fart."

  Orsini smiled his strange flat smile. "I've yet to meet a priest who's not a past master of all three."

  The purser cocked his head, listening to a commotion outside.

  "Come on, we've got to go. I'll take the manifest up… you two follow on as soon as you're ready."

  Skiouros glared at the back of the purser as the man ducked out of the room and ran along the corridor, brandishing the manifest book.

  "At least it looks like they fit" Orsini said conversationally from the doorway.

  Skiouros, already tightly packed into the 'anteri' cassock, struggled to pull the vest over his head. "It certainly smells lived in", the Greek grunted, sniffing the vest and pulling his face away in disgust, remembering its last occupant as the Romani beggar had been brought into the dining room.

  Orsini chuckled. "You need a hand?"

  "Funnily enough, no. It might sound strange," he added as he straightened the vest that hung to the knee, and reached for the outer 'exorasson' cassock, "but this is far from the first time I've dressed as a monk. In fact, I have the horrible feeling I've worn this very set of vestments before. I'm pretty sure I can still smell my own vomit on it."

  As the billowing outer cassock dropped over the top and Skiouros adjusted it, Orsini raised a curious eyebrow.

  "You do seem to fit it well. I'll not pry, but I shall pray to God that the Turks think so too." He smiled. "I wonder if a good Catholic prayer for the welfare of an orthodox monk is some kind of heresy?"

  "I'm not a monk" grumbled Skiouros.

  "You are now. And don't forget it."

  Orsini watched with interest as Skiouros plopped the hat onto his scalp and arranged the veil so that it hung down the back neatly.

  "How do I look?"

  "Godly" Orsini smiled. "Dusty, but Godly. Get out there and don't forget to act like a monk."

  Skiouros sighed and stepped out of the room, Orsini ducking back and bowing respectfully as though the Greek was the real thing. Taking a deep breath and wishing he had more of a beard than the four day growth of black bristles, Skiouros moved along the corridor and stepped into the bright sunlight of the Mediterranean.

  A dozen Turkish sailors were aboard the Isabella now. Three of them were busy roping the Venetian sailors together at both hands and feet. Slaves, was Skiouros' first thought, until he noticed that behind them, unseen by the unfortunate men, one of the Turks was securing a heavy cannon ball to the rope. Skiouros felt sick as his mind leapt ahead to the conclusion of that particular activity.

  He turned away from the pre-execution ritual, looking instead at the Isabella's officers. Parmenio stood at the rail, along with Nicolo. Across the gap and past the rails, the Turkish captain stood aboard the Yarim Ay with his second, examining the log book, several armed men keeping a close eye on the Isabella's senior men. The corsair looked up as the two passengers strode across the deck towards them.

  "Cesare Orsini of Genoa and Father Skiouros of Candia." He turned back to Parmenio. "We are missing three crewmen of your ship's complement."

  "Two men are sick in their cots below decks" Nicolo replied quietly, well aware of what would happen to the poor bastards - left writhing abed while the scuttled ship sank around them.

  "And the third?"

  "I have no idea" Parmenio replied honestly and with a trace of bitterness. "Possibly he went overboard during the unprovoked attack?"

  The Turk lifted his face and fixed Parmenio with a piercing gaze, trying to detect any hint of falsehood but, appearing to find the captain's expression candid, he nodded once and struck a line from the crew list.

  Skiouros examined the enemy as he busily ran down the manifest, deciding whether anything was worth taking. The Turkish captain was of an average height and build, not striking in any other way, but for his face alone. His eyes were such a pale grey that they seemed almost white - a shocking contrast with his tanned, leathery skin and the pitch-black beard and moustaches that framed the lower half. His gaze seemed basilisk-like, and Skiouros found himself willing the man to blink, just to prove his humanity.

  His heavy, gold-brocaded coat of dark blue hung over trousers of light grey that almost matched his eyes, high suede boots of dazzling bright sapphire completing the outfit. His turban was of a pale grey and a good size, the conical peak of the cap at its centre rising in deep blue from the top.

  Well dressed and handsome, the captain should have exuded the charisma that seemed to Skiouros to be part of the uniform of the Ottoman officer class. Instead, what he gave off was a chilling coldness that sent shudders up the spine; a feeling akin to that of entering a cursed place, or the tomb of the recently deceased - both things that Skiouros had found cause to attempt in his time.
Something about the captain of the Yarim Ay chilled the blood.

  It was as he suppressed the shudder that Skiouros' memory dredged up the title the captain had assumed when he'd first addressed them: Etci Hassan, Reis of the kadirga Yarim Ay.

  'Etci' he thought, his blood running cold.

  'The butcher!'

  That a man would answer to such an appellation of his own volition said everything Skiouros needed to know about the captain of the Yarim Ay - the 'Half Moon'. Hassan Reis would be a man to watch carefully, and certainly not to cross or antagonise, for a man called 'the butcher' was hardly shrinking from a vile reputation.

  Almost as if he felt Skiouros peeling open his soul, Hassan's chilling gaze came to rest on the Greek. Skiouros shuddered again involuntarily, feeling exposed and hopelessly at the mercy of this dangerous man. Under that grey-white scrutiny, he found himself thinking on everything that could very easily betray him without even the need to open his mouth.

  Only young novices of the church went about without sporting the traditional great beards, and then only because they were uniformly too young to do so. Skiouros remembered questioning Father Simonides over the beards when they were children. The precise details escaped him, but it remained clear that more than one passage in the scriptures forbade a man of God trimming his hair and beard down. Fortunately, Skiouros' wild hair was easily concealed beneath the hat and veil, but the bristles would be difficult to explain away.

  Similarly, should his vestments flutter up too much and reveal the scuffed but high quality leather boots he wore, their presence might be questioned on a monk. Even as he ran through what he would need to remember, he called to mind the signet ring on his left hand, purchased from a salesman in Candia while under the influence of drink. He could not for the life of him remember whether a priest would wear a ring, but it seemed extremely unlikely such a nice one would be found on the hand of a young, unmarried monk.

  As he met Hassan's gaze weakly, he put his hand down to the prayer rope that hung from a loop on his cassock and unfastened it, pulling it up and working around the knots, his mouth moving in apparent prayer as, with the deftness born of a gutter thief, he secretly worked the ring from his finger with each movement of the rope until he was able to palm it to dispose of at the first opportunity.