"You are brave, priest" Kadri said quietly once they were below deck again. "And the luck of the prophet - may peace be upon him - is with you."
Skiouros paused at the bottom of the steps and waited for the sailor to reach the floor.
"Why are the crew so uneasy about me? The captain has surely killed my brethren before?"
Kadri looked nervous, his eyes rising to the square of light above, beyond which the crew were returning to their tasks.
"There has been… trouble" he said so quietly that Skiouros had to strain to hear.
"Trouble?"
"We killed a priest - along with his whole village - in Zakynthos and delivered their peeled remains to the Venetians at Methoni, a day's sail to the south. The captain despises the masters of Methoni more even than he despises your kind. We shouldn't have done it, though. We lost three men in three days - to the priest's spirit, of course. You never bring a dead body inside! Never! And we brought a dead priest aboard."
Skiouros nodded slowly - that was one of many Turkish superstitions he remembered from his days in Istanbul: to bring a corpse into the house was to bring about the death of three of its occupants. He was beginning to understand why Mehmi and his friends displayed such nerves. Of course, there could be myriad reasons for unexplained deaths aboard ship, though three in three days was a little out of the ordinary, admittedly.
Luck? Or was God lending him a hand after all?
"Etci Hassan Reis appears not to suffer such concern."
Kadri looked surprised at the statement.
"The captain is impervious to such spirits. Allah shelters him; protects and preserves him for great things. He is beloved of the prophet - peace of Allah be upon him - but such protection does not extend to the rest of us."
Kadri's voice dropped to an even quieter whisper, if such a thing was possible, and he leaned close to Skiouros, holding his sword safely back out of the way.
"If the captain decides you are to die, the decision will be unpopular, but no one will contest it. Remember, though, that I was good to you. When your spirit roams free and vengeful, do not come to claim me." He looked about nervously. "I will bring you all food" he added, pleadingly.
Skiouros almost smiled. A few random unlucky deaths had fed enough uncertainty to the superstitious crew to overcome their general hatred of the church and accept the presence of a monk, however uncomfortably.
It was either the most extraordinary stroke of luck, or the Hand of God truly was moving pieces in the great game of life. So many things had fallen into place. For there even to have been a priest's vestments on board the Isabella was miraculous enough. For Parmenio to have thought of using them? For such a random happening of events to have struck the kadirga on their journey to have put the crew in a receptive frame of mind - enough even to sway their captain, who clearly denied all superstition and harboured the most bloodthirsty hatred of the Christian faith?
It was almost mind-boggling to Skiouros that such a chain of events should fall into place.
Kadri gestured towards the prisoners' accommodation, back along the deck.
"Go. I will bring food soon."
As the sailor turned and clambered up the steps to the main deck, Skiouros smiled to himself and shuffled along the narrow alleyway to the space where the other three sat nervously, waiting.
"What happened?" Parmenio asked, as Skiouros entered and sank to the floor once again, relief flooding his system.
"I think that God just moved in yet another mysterious way. It seems that Captain Hassan is currently at the mercy of a superstitious crew who are afraid to kill priests. It's a long story."
"We seem to be overly-burdened with spare time" noted Nicolo wearily.
"True. And now we might have something of a small ally among the crew - or at least a man who will not cross me for fear of my ghost making a tasty morsel of him. And we need to bear in mind that the second in command - Mehmi - is particularly jumpy and superstitious. Could be useful."
He sighed.
"Let me tell you something about Turkish superstitions…"
Chapter Eight - Of the bones of an empire
Skiouros grunted with discomfort as he squeezed between the containers in the hold, barely enough room for a cat to crawl, let alone a human being. Behind him, only just visible in the cramped circumstances, Parmenio, Nicolo and Cesare stood tense and quiet.
"Can you see yet?"
Skiouros, small and agile and yet still experiencing extreme difficulty in crawling between the tightly-packed supplies, shook his head.
"Almost" he whispered. "Nearly there."
Taking three deep breaths to prepare, he exhaled, making himself as thin as he could manage, and pushed between the two huge wooden crates, feeling the rough wood scraping the flesh of his ribs even through the inner, light cassock that protected him. He had left the vest, hat, veil and outer cassock with the others, as they were far too bulky to even contemplate wearing for such activity.
His eyes fell once more on the tiny apertures below a ceiling that was far lower than in a caravel such as the Isabella, due to the shallow draft of the galley. He could hear the water lapping against the hull somewhere around half way up the wooden wall and the thought that most of him was actually below the waterline was somewhat unnerving.
The small holes that were his objective were there - according to Parmenio - to allow air circulation in the cargo hold and prevent rot, and were at most four or five feet above the water at any given point, exposing the peripheral cargo to occasional slops of seawater whenever the surface became too choppy. The corsairs had, of course, accounted for this and stacked the goods that would not be at risk from salt damage at the perimeter.
As he pulled himself through the narrow gap and collapsed, breathing heavily, on a rare high and flat surface, he peered at the stores that he was moving amongst and thought back over the illicit inventory the four prisoners had carried out yesterday.
It had become painfully obvious that unless the captives could work out some method of escape, they were doomed to sale and enforced servitude among the Arab states of the Barbary Coast. The first step had been an inventory of the goods in the hold, as quietly as possible during the early morning, when there was enough light in the hold to see by and the galley-slaves above were engaged in the first major rowing session of the day, the noises disguising the searching below.
Clearly the fleet that this kadirga was sailing to rejoin was planning to stay in circulation for some months yet and were expecting action. The Yarim Ay's hold was packed with stores, but not with livestock or victuals - ordinary food and water could be taken by trade or by force in small unprepared village harbours. These were supplies for a campaign: a small section - close to the hull as it would not suffer from seawater - held packed salted beef, prepared in the halal manner, which would feed the officers, the crew living from whatever could be taken or foraged on coastal forays. The rest was black powder, timber and tools, spare sails and heavy-grade linen for patching, yard upon yard of rope of varying thicknesses, sealed buckets of pitch, leather goods, cleaning equipment and the like.
A surprisingly large section had been put aside for the plunder of Zakynthos, and the four had stared in open-mouthed awe at the unearthly value of those chests. Skiouros had found himself clutching his prayer rope as he peered at the great crosses and other religious silver- and gold-ware, praying as though he were a real priest, and chided himself irritably for succumbing to the garb he wore. Despite his vow to Lykaion that his thieving days were done, Skiouros had dipped into one of the chests and scooped out a handful of gold coins with Venetian designs. After all, it was more an act of rescue and restitution than theft, when he thought it through. Clearly the others agreed, as they had also purloined a handful of ducats. The hiding of such coins was no trouble, slipped into boots, codpieces and the like.
Of the rest of the hold's cargo, there was little they could use to effect an escape. Certainly no weapons - barring arr
ows, cannon shot and the three inch balls for the abus guns. Although there would almost certainly be weapon stores, they would presumably be kept up top where they could be easily accessed at short notice by the crew.
And away from the prisoners.
Just in case, the four had taken some spare tool handles that could serve as clubs, a few handfuls of black powder wrapped carefully in sail fabric pouches and tied with twine, and two arrows apiece, which could - at a push - serve as thrusting weapons. Now hidden behind a crate next to their prison area, the collection was more than they could have hoped for, but was still paltry and ineffectual when weighed against the opposition above deck. Any overt move would soon see them to their deaths.
And so they had concluded that their only hope of escape would lie between disembarkation and their grisly destination. Until their feet touched land there was simply no hope, and once they reached the slave market all hope would be lost. A narrow window of opportunity.
Parmenio and the others had settled into a quiet discussion of how a break could be effected during that time and Skiouros had listened to the conversation progress, aware that any useful input on his part would likely involve revealing something of his past that he'd hoped to keep from the others - particularly from the noble Orsini.
"We are all trained with a blade" Parmenio had said, "even if for some of us it was decades ago. The four of us might well be able to take care of ourselves if we manage to arm ourselves and make some space to take the Turks on. I have a little knowledge of Tunis, from trading there many years ago, as does Nicolo - so we might be able to find our way around the city - but beyond that, we're somewhat left to flounder in our plan. So do you two have anything to add?"
He and Nicolo had looked to Cesare - who had simply shrugged and shook his head - and then to Skiouros, who had closed his eyes for a moment and taken a deep breath.
"I have some experience in the field of slavery and flight."
Raised eyebrows and frowns had greeted this revelation. Carefully, Skiouros had gone on to elucidate, telling the story of his selection in the Devsirme, along with his brother, and of their travel to the great city of Constantine, the lucky moment and his escape into the city. He glossed over Lykaion's objections somewhat and said nothing of his life beforehand or what had happened after he fled into the streets of Constantinople, but Parmenio had nodded as though it was much as he'd expected, as did Nicolo. Cesare had smiled a fascinated and surprisingly warm smile.
No one had pressed him further, and he'd been glad of that, though he knew that he'd now removed the first brick from the wall that surrounded his innermost private secrets and that, should they make it out of this, his friends would begin to hack away at the rest of the wall.
Parmenio had gone on to outline what he knew of Tunis, which turned out to be a surprisingly detailed account, albeit restricted to the areas that a Christian trader would visit, which ruled out the slave market and its locale. It had become clear that the only chance they had of flight would be on the trip through the city, relying on Skiouros' skill at trickery and evasion, Parmenio's local knowledge, and the martial skills of them all. Skiouros would have to pick their moment, as soon as he saw the best opportunity, and Parmenio and Nicolo would then have to steer them as best they could until they reached relative safety.
This was all dependent upon them getting away from their captors without a hitch, of course.
As they had continued to look at every angle of the so-called 'plan' for the last evening, it was somewhat disheartening to hear how many times the phrases 'if', 'as long as' and 'might be' arose. Too often for any of their liking.
But, sparse and barely-formed as it was, it was the start of a plan that would have to wait until they reached Tunis to develop further.
And finally, ten minutes ago, the kadirga had come to a halt. That fact, combined with the sound of dozens of gulls shrieking at the ship and the crash of waves breaking on rock somewhere nearby had led them to assume they had reached their destination.
Parmenio had pondered at the sounds outside and come to the conclusion that Hassan had settled for anchorage somewhere in the outer reaches of the 'gullet' - the wide series of harbours that led from the open sea to the very walls of the Hafsid capital. Likely, given the simmering enmity between the Tunisian Emirs and the Ottoman Empire, Hassan was probably playing it as safe as possible and staying within reach of the sea for a clear run, should the authorities take exception to him.
Their anchor position would dictate the route and distance they would take to reach the heart of the city and the slave market, and the end result was what now led to Skiouros lying, scraped and bruised, on a crate of salt beef a few feet below one of the small apertures that would afford him a view of the great port of Tunis and allow him to provide some points of reference for Parmenio to work with.
He could hear the rowers only just above him, resting and rubbing their sore muscles, drinking the precious water that was handed round to them from a bucket. Through the holes, the oars themselves were now visible almost at the collar, which rested at another set of apertures from the top deck only a foot above these ones.
"Well?" demanded Nicolo in an impatient hiss, unseen in the dark hold.
Skiouros heaved himself up and peered through the hole.
"Come on!" snapped Parmenio quietly, back among the crates with the others.
"This 'Gullet'…" Skiouros hazarded. "What does it look like?"
"It's a wide harbour with different port sections and docks, jetties, warehouses and so on down both sides. If you can see the fortified mouth of the place, then we're still anchored outside in the bay. If you can see down the mouth and to the walls and the city itself, then we're a lot further down and near Tunis, but I don't think that's the case, from the sounds."
Skiouros pinched the bridge of his nose and took another breath.
"And Tunis. It's a big, thriving walled city, yes?"
"Yes. Bigger than Candia and home to thousands of Arabs and Berbers. Full of markets, mosques and palaces. The walls come right down to the port, and you might be able to see the Bab el Bahr - the sea gate. The twin towers stand quite high above the docked ships, and they usually have the Hafsid flag flying."
"I don't think we're at Tunis" the Greek breathed quietly, his gaze darting back and forth.
"What?"
Skiouros squinted through the hole again, his eyes unaccustomed to the bright sunlight. His gaze took in the surroundings once more, and he shook his head in defeat.
"Unless there's been some sort of Biblical disaster - like Sodom and Gomorrah - this isn't Tunis."
"What can you see?" Nicolo urged, panic tinging the edge of his voice.
"We're in some sort of harbour" Skiouros said, his eyes ranging the scenery for landmarks. "It's sort of curved and I think there's a small island in the middle, although it could be a headland from this angle. It's covered in ruins; looks like smashed up warehouses. Very old. Sort of like the ruins of the older emperors back in Istanbul - maybe as old as the hippodrome or the Blachernae ruins? And there are what look like city walls, but they collapsed centuries ago, I reckon. There's a big hill and it doesn't look like there are many signs of life."
Parmenio groaned.
"What?" Asked Skiouros with a frown, unable to see his friends back across the hold and past the crates.
"Sounds like Carthage" Parmenio sighed. "Does the hill have its own walls? And the edges of the circular port - are they covered in the same sort of ruins as the island?"
Skiouros peered into the heat haze and blinked.
"Think so."
"That's the ancient harbour. A lot of it's silted up and it hasn't been used by anything bigger than local fishermen for a thousand years. Caravels can't really get in, but a galley has a nice low draft. Best get back here quickly."
Skiouros took another, last look at the outside and then began the scramble back between crates and bales, finally dropping into the open space where his f
riends waited, to see Parmenio scratching his golden-bearded chin thoughtfully.
"Where is Carthage, then?" Skiouros asked.
"Just outside Tunis. Maybe three leagues from the city, but only a league from the 'gullet'. Wily old bastard Hassan's decided to anchor in an abandoned ruin, where the Hafsid authorities won't be looking for intruders. He'll be a lot safer here, and it's only a short hop to the city."
"Does that improve our chances" Cesare asked quietly, "or worsen them?"
"Hard to say" Parmenio shrugged. "It means we'll have a longer trip, which has to be useful. More opportunity I suppose. But it also means that Hassan can concentrate on taking us to the souk and on the sale, and won't have to divide his attention between us and the security of his ship. His eyes will be all the more on his prize."
Skiouros shrugged. "Attention can always be diverted. I see this as an advantage - a greater opportunity to slip away."
Without further delay, the Greek began to shrug into his monastic garments, straining with the effort and pulling faces at the ever-worsening smell that clung to them: vomit, ordure and more than a week's worth of sweat.
Orsini tapped his lip, deep in thought. "What are the chances that we could actually get the local authorities onto our side, if they hold the Empire in such disdain?"
"Low" Parmenio sighed. "Doesn't matter what the official stance is, very few questions will be asked if Hassan brings quality slave merchandise for sale in the city. Only the higher authorities would baulk at our arrival, and they'll never hear about it. A few copper fals slipped to the guards on the gate and no questions will be asked. If Hassan is careful - and my guess is he's a very careful man - we'll be at the market and sold before anyone ever raises the fact that there are Turks in the city. He'll be back aboard and to sea before the Emir's government hear anything about it, if they ever do."
Priest's Tale Page 11