Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  "Remember," Kemal Reis said, his wise eyes, surrounded by the creases of age and care, playing across the men under his command "that we are here as an embassy in the name of the Sultan and not as an invading force… or a 'cleansing fire of Islam'." This last had clearly been aimed at Etci Hassan, on whom the commander's gaze had finally come to rest.

  Salih Bin Abdullah smiled as he bowed and Mehmi noticed a sly flick of the eyes towards his fellow captain. Hassan simply stood silent and impassive, his cold eyes busily killing, raping and pillaging everything they fell upon.

  A man in a red robe that almost covered a large paunch wrapped in black silk and wearing some sort of chain of office around his fat neck strode over towards the new arrivals. His puffy, bald, sweaty face was filled with officious power and Mehmi could not help but notice the small knot of half a dozen men in tunics which bore the arms of Castile - red lion on white and gold castle on red - standing close behind him, ready for trouble with their pikes held aloft, yet in tight grips.

  The man babbled something in their strange, ophidian tongue and the entire party turned to look at Salih Reis. While Kemal had some small ability with the tongue, only Salih had a full command of it, and the smiling captain nodded his understanding and turned to his companions.

  "This is the dockmaster. He is, I surmise, unhappy with our presence."

  Mehmi almost smiled. He had seen the dockmaster's face and could well imagine the sort of words the man had truly used - Salih had paraphrased fairly heavily.

  Kemal Reis sketched a deep bow in the Spanish fashion, drawing a sneer from Hassan, and then smiled.

  "Forgive us, Excellency" - almost certainly an over-pompous honorific for such a minor bureaucrat, but one that eased the tension in the man's face as Salih translated - "We are here in the form of diplomats only. We seek to cause no distress or harm to the inhabitants of your fair city; only to negotiate the freedom of a number of enemies of your crown that remain in custody."

  He waited as Salih translated and then the official paused in thought before replying.

  "The dockmaster says that you must mean the 'moros' in the carcel - the jail. He says that many are calling for their death and that you will have to be very persuasive if you wish to convince the Duke of Medina Sidonia's senior representative to release them."

  Mehmi sagged a little. The name of the brutal Medina Sidonia was well known for his hatred of the Moors that he saw as having infected and enslaved his nation. The negotiations would be tense, even if it were just some lackey they dealt with - which it would be, of course.

  The information that almost thirty Muslims had refused to convert to the Catholic Church, but had also failed to leave the country, had reached Kemal Reis through contacts in the ports of Africa. The imprisoned group had been attempting to live a quiet life, unnoticed and forgotten in a small village in the hills below Monte Cebollar, but their religious practices had been observed by a passing merchant and they had found themselves in short order in a locked cell in nearby Palos. Their fate remained uncertain until Medina Sidonia confirmed his decision, but Kemal had decided that such men deserved rescue more than most and so had risked the lives of his men to negotiate with the Spanish lords.

  "Inform the dockmaster that we would like to visit the Duke's officer and open negotiations with him. Could he direct us to the appropriate building?"

  Another pause for translating and Mehmi clenched his teeth as he saw the fat man shake his head and spread his sausage-like fingers in refusal.

  "The dockmaster says we are not to be permitted our freedom in the city. By civic law he should report us to the Duke's man and we should be allowed no further than the dock until he authorizes it, which he undoubtedly will not do. Even so, should permission be granted, we will be forbidden from bearing arms in the city."

  Etci Hassan's gaze slid slowly to the man, his ice-grey eyes flaying the flesh from the fat man's bones.

  "Tell this piece of pig offal that if he speaks to us with such disrespect again I will tear off his face and mount it on my ship."

  Kemal's restraining hand came across and pressed on Hassan's chest, causing him to turn an all-the-more furious look on his own commander.

  "You will say no such thing" Kemal said quietly to Salih, though the other captain was unlikely to have done so anyway. "You will ask the man, using every honorific you can dredge up, whether there is any way we can be escorted to the official in charge and preferably not entirely unarmed, since we are emissaries of a foreign power."

  Salih relayed the question and an expression more open to possibilities began to fall across the fat face.

  "The dockmaster says he will be willing to escort the commanders to the office, but their 'pirates'" - a smile at this word - "must remain on the dock."

  Mehmi experienced a moment of genuine relief at the possibility that he might have to remain 'safely' by the water. Kemal gave a genuine chuckle, though Hassan looked as though he might burst into flame at any moment.

  "Tell the man that I am most grateful" the senior captain replied. "Would his excellency be willing to extend the offer to our seconds in command? He must understand that they serve in a clerkish fashion as well as being sailors and we are loath to leave behind their expertise."

  Mehmi felt his spirits sink once more - he would have to go after all.

  "I will not place myself in peril at the hands of these heathen animals" Hassan spat. "I will remain here with the soldiers while you walk into their prison, and when you fail to return I can take your ships back to sea and do something more productive with them."

  Salih's eyes shot across to his counterpart, while his hand went to the pommel of his sword, causing a ripple of similar action throughout the crowd. More guards suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, bringing the sum of local men-at-arms to around two dozen. Salih carefully took his hand from the pommel and rattled something off in Spanish to the dockmaster, presumably trying to explain that any threat had been meant towards his own companion and not the locals.

  Kemal, his usually benevolent features displaying a rare true anger, turned to Etci Hassan, whose own hand was now resting upon his sword hilt.

  "Your words come dangerously close to mutiny, Hassan. Bear in mind what punishment I might consider meting out in response to treachery from my own."

  "I am no traitor" Hassan snarled. "I mean only to protect our backs here while you walk into the lion's mouth."

  "Under no circumstances will you ever persuade me to leave you alone, armed and with soldiers under your command in the company of Christians. You are not to be trusted, Hassan Reis. You will accompany us, where I can be certain of your actions and that they do not embarrass both myself and the great Sultan Bayezid. Take your hand from your sword before I have it sawn off and present it to the dockmaster as an apology for the insult."

  Mehmi actually stepped back at the words, moving a little away as if pushed aside by the commander's ire. Even Hassan actually blinked in surprise. The great Kemal did not lose his cool. He was almost famed for his even temper and carefully considered words, and it was a sign of just how close to the edge Hassan was treading that he had managed to elicit such a response.

  Not for the first time these past months, Mehmi wondered about the health of his captain's mind. Was Etci Hassan coming apart at the seams?

  The captain of the Yarim Ay was so furious that he was vibrating ever so slightly, controlling his own anger through clenched teeth. After almost a minute of visibly forcing himself to calm down, Hassan spoke through gritted teeth, his hand falling back down to his side, where it continually gripped and ungripped, his nails digging into his ruined palm.

  "My apologies, great Reis. I meant no insult. My wounded foot aches and drives me to unnecessary anger."

  It was a fake act of contrition and they all knew it, but it appeared to be enough to mollify the commander for now, and he nodded his acceptance and turned back to the dockmaster. Behind him Hassan moved sharply, taking the weight f
rom his bad foot and Mehmi had the momentarily but very real fear that his captain might draw his knife and murder the commander there and then.

  It would be easy and, were it not for the presence of Salih and the crews of the other two kadirga, he might well have done so. For sure, the Spaniards would not intervene to save a Turk.

  Now, they were surrounded by an arc of local soldiers bearing the arms of Castile, with the water at their back.

  Mehmi turned his head and looked longingly at the river and its promise of freedom. Spanish ships wallowed as small boats continually ferried goods and supplies across to them from the dock and the shoreline. It almost looked like a fleet preparing to sail and it worried him for a moment that the authorities were moving against the Turkish ships near the river's mouth. But they could not yet know where the kadirga were, and could not possibly have had the time to begin preparations for sailing against them this quickly.

  "They shall not take my blade" Hassan said with quiet steel, drawing Mehmi's attention back to the confrontation.

  "They have not asked for it" Kemal replied equally calmly and with an arched brow. "But nonetheless you will keep it sheathed unless I command otherwise."

  A silent battle of wills appeared to be waged between the two captains and Hassan was the first to break their locked gaze as he reached out to one of his men standing behind Mehmi, snapping his fingers. Without the need to enquire further, the sailor unshouldered his matchlock musket and passed it over.

  Kemal's arched eyebrow rose a little.

  "Going hunting, Hassan?"

  "I prefer to arm myself adequately when walking into the arms of my enemy, Lord" Hassan replied in his quiet, deadly tone.

  The dockmaster burbled away in Spanish and Salih coughed and pointed at the gun over the captain of the Yarim Ay's shoulder.

  "His excellency is asking what is this?" Mehmi smiled as he realised that the Spaniards had probably never seen muskets in action. These people were so backwards and barbaric they had only just learned to use cannon.

  "Tell him…" Kemal glanced at his underling and sighed in resignation. "Tell him it is a badge of office. Nothing more."

  Hassan glared at the Spaniards while the next round of translation began and finally the dockmaster shrugged and gestured towards the town.

  Mehmi watched as his captain fell in line behind Salih at the rear, his piercing grey gaze raking the guards and the locals alike as he cast his displeasure and disdain around at Palos and its occupants. The captain of the Yarim Ay cared not for his situation.

  With a deep breath, Mehmi followed on, throwing a last longing look at the water and its seething collection of small craft and large merchant vessels.

  He would give good money to be out at sea right now. And it would be nice to say that he was free of cursed witch-priests at last, but his nervous gaze strayed once more towards the great russet bulk of the church of San Jorge above them.

  Resigned to a troubled fate he sucked air through his teeth and spat on the ground, tugging madly at his earlobe trying to protect them all from the hell into which they walked.

  Chapter Twenty - Of merchants and madmen

  "It's almost as busy as the Theodosian harbour back home" smiled Skiouros as he leaned over the rail between his friends.

  "Not bad for a small town with only a riverside dock" Parmenio nodded. "Looking at what's going on at the moment, there's probably as many people on the river as there are in the town. Palos is not large."

  "I've never seen anything like it. Captain Agostinho must be a damn good sailor to navigate all that."

  Parmenio turned a sour look on the young Greek. "I've done as much myself a dozen times. Sometimes in this very river."

  The journey from the open sea, perhaps five miles or more, had been an education for Skiouros in the fine art of ship steering. The river was many hundreds of yards across - far from a narrow channel - but the sheer volume of craft clogged it tight, from large mercantile caravels and carracks, through a smaller cog, down to perhaps hundreds of fishing vessels, barges, small traders, tugs and ship's boats. The good ship 'cabbage' had been forced to move at the most inordinately slow pace, allowing tiny boats to paddle and edge out of its path, while itself weaving between the larger vessels moored in the deeper water at the river's centre.

  Not once had they touched the hull of even a small fisherman. Skiouros was certain that had he been on the tiller, they would have sunk two dozen ships by now. But then, had he been on the tiller they'd have run aground before ever they had reached this shipping maze.

  Now, they were finally drifting to a halt, not far from the heavy cog that displayed the Portuguese flag and two heavy, low barges which must have come down from Moguer and Huelva. Even as Skiouros peered at the riverside dock which teemed with life, he heard the strange garbled Portuguese tongue and the splash as the anchor dropped, signifying the end of their journey and their long-awaited return to Europe.

  It was almost over.

  Skiouros watched briefly as the ship's boat was lowered to the river's fast-flowing surface with a splash and two sailors descended to it on a rope ladder. As they began to load a few small bags and unshipped the oars, Skiouros returned his attention to the town on the hill, dominated by a heavy, low fortress and a featureless Catholic church. Most of the town was of white plastered walls, winding around the hill above a market that would give even Istanbul's bazaars a run for their money. But despite the market, as a conurbation Palos was, in his opinion, nothing special. In the last few years he had seen the seething metropolis of Istanbul, the great fortress city of Candia on Crete, the sprawling ruins of Carthage and Tugga, the steaming souks of Tunis and the powerful port of Ceuta. Somehow, this small, almost provincial hill town with its disproportionately busy dock and market seemed a deflating sight, considering its importance and what it meant for him personally.

  Somewhere among those stalls behind the dock or between the white houses on the hill, Skiouros and Cesare would have to say their farewells to Parmenio and Nicolo and then make their way towards the fractured ever-warring states of Italia. He hoped the two sailors would understand; was fairly sure they would. Cesare had stated his intentions to draw extra funding from the Medici House when he found it and pay the sailors a heavy subsidy that would give Parmenio a leg up to rebuilding his life. Shared adversity made brothers of the most dissimilar of men.

  "No Barco!" shouted a sailor nearby and Skiouros frowned.

  "Into the boat" Parmenio translated as he made his way along the rail and prepared to climb down. Nicolo followed, then Skiouros and Cesare. Negotiating the rope ladder and its wet, salt-encrusted surface with legs made unstable by the rolling gait of the ship was interesting, and Skiouros was forced to divert all of his attention to the task, sending up a quick thank you to the divine for not fumbling as he set foot in the small boat and took his seat.

  It was only as they started to move and his eyes fell upon that hulking church on the hill that he realised once again the prayer he had cast up was of the most strange, eclectic type, consisting of part doctrinal Orthodox prayer, part heartfelt personal gratitude and part learned-by-rote Muslim offering. If God - whoever he truly was - was actually listening in to the prayers of this particular fabricated priest, the random mix of faiths and languages must be giving him an almighty divine headache.

  As they crossed the river, nipping lightly between other boats with the two men on the oars yelling at their counterparts nearby and his other three companions watching the dock approach, Skiouros amused himself by wondering what the local Catholic priest would say if he dropped in at that monstrous church and sent up such a prayer in a mix of Greek and Arabic. This particular worshipper would probably find himself stretched to snapping point or burning at the stake within an hour.

  One thing he had heard about the Spanish church during his sojourn on Crete and his constant visits to Saint Titus was that they had absolutely no sense of humour. Another was the dim view they took of 'heresy
'. Perhaps he would give that brooding building a wide berth.

  The four men had their gear - such as it was - in the boat with them. One meagre bag apiece, along with the swords they had acquired from the brigands in Africa - in Cesare's case the old knight-priest's plain blade. Not much to show for a lifetime's possessions but, when added to the fact that those lives were still being lived despite everything, it was something to be immensely grateful for.

  Skiouros reached out, as the boat rocked in time with the oars, for the blade wrapped in his cloak to examine its strange curved, exotic beauty but saw Nicolo shaking his head with a dark expression. In the climate of the new Spain bearing an Arabic weapon openly might be a fast-track to losing one's liberty again.

  Instead, he watched the boats around them as they approached the shore, making for an area of gravelled landing rather than the purpose-built dock that seethed with a constant ant's nest of activity.

  Even discounting the numerous fishermen, there were still a huge number of boats and small vessels carrying goods ashore from some ships and from the land to others. Traders and barges sold their wares to the merchants of Palos, while other boats supplied their vessels for new journeys.

  Skiouros leaned back with a smile.

  It was pretty much unprecedented.

  A sea journey without incident.