Priest's Tale

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Skiouros' head snapped back and forth once more, taking stock of the situation. The dock-side proper was thronged with people loading the last boats of the day and offered a certain anonymity and the possibility of vanishing among the crowd. The other way - downstream - was clear, barring three wide boats pulled up on the gravel of the shore. His eyes narrowed as he picked out the detail of those boats. Two of good polished dark wood, well-cared for and plain barring a little gilded embellishment at the bow. The third was red and black.

  "The dock!" Skiouros said, even as the detachment of Turks left to guard their boats burst out of the maze of stalls next to the boats, less than twenty yards downstream, weapons drawn in response to Hassan's bellowed commands that rang out across the market. Even as the other three turned and ran, heading for the dock, Skiouros saw the Turks spot them and burst into renewed activity, racing along the riverbank. Behind them, three Spanish soldiers emerged, shouting angrily at the foreigners bearing arms in malice in their city, but staying far enough back from the corsair force that outnumbered them four-to-one so as not to engage them prematurely. Suicide was clearly not on the guards' agenda, so they were of little use to Skiouros.

  The young Greek turned to follow his friends, just in time to come face to face with two more Turks who burst from between a set of stalls into his path, sealing off his escape. Skiouros watched his friends beyond the two men, running and unaware of his peril. Arresting his paltry momentum, he whipped the curved blade from his pack, allowing the rest of his meagre worldly goods to fall to the ground, where they rolled gently into the edge of the water and were tugged at by the current until finally whisked away.

  The curved blade still felt unfamiliar in his hands and Skiouros felt the irony of being a European, trained with a Spanish rapier and standing in a city where those blades were the norm but bearing an Arabic sword. Despite his unfamiliarity, his practiced and almost professional grip clearly alerted the two Turks and they straightened and came to a complete halt, sizing him up.

  Skiouros looked over his shoulder. He had a matter of mere heartbeats before he was caught between these two and their friends back along the river, and then the matter would be resolved in a bloody end.

  Desperately, he tried to effect the 'hanging point' guard, raising his blade so that it arced down forward from above his forehead, with his arms crossed at the wrist. It looked different from the many times he had practiced it in the courtyard with Don Diego, but that was the simple matter of the curved blade. His positioning was spot-on, and he knew it.

  "Come on then, ass-for-a-mouth" he snapped in Turkish. Of all the many insults he knew - and had practiced - in his years in Istanbul, that particular one had never failed to raise a response.

  This occasion was no different, judging by the ire in the Turk corsair's twisted expression.

  Goaded, the two Turks attacked, the one to the left lunging forward with his blade, while his companion swept his sword in a slicing stroke at Skiouros' side. From his perfect defensive guard, Skiouros twitched his hands and knocked the lunge harmlessly aside, bringing the blade across to block the swipe in the same swift move. As both sailors recovered from their failed attacks, Skiouros uncrossed his wrists, the simple action bringing his curved blade around in a wide swing, biting into the hip of the man who had sliced at him. The sailor shrieked and staggered back, his leg ruined and useless, blood slicking down his thigh.

  With no time to effect any other clever guard of Don Diego's teaching, Skiouros fell instead to his natural instincts and the basic methods of defence taught him by Iannis. The second man was faster in his recovery than Skiouros could have anticipated, his blade whipping back again and then forth at the Greek like a snake striking. Skiouros barely managed to get his blade in the way and turn the blow aside, himself staggering wrong-footed.

  He knew this moment for what it was. So often in his bouts with Don Diego he would manage to stay in control of the fight, utilising the appropriate guards and strikes, but sooner or later he would falter. Something would take him by surprise and he would fail to recover, and from there it had always been a slippery slope to destruction and humiliation at the tip of the Spaniard's sword.

  He was lucky indeed that as he ducked panicking to the side, he spotted - in the blink of an eye and reflected in his opponent's blade - a Turk behind him approaching with a raised sword. Allowing himself to stagger further aside than necessary, he barely avoided being skewered in the back by the new arrival.

  Now he was in real trouble. Two men was a challenge, but a dozen was an impossibility. His eyes flicked up to try and determine where his friends had got to, but he had neither the time nor the freedom to search the shoreline for them. Instead, he spun, his hastily raised blade clattering off three swords of the group of sailors coming from behind. Something sliced through the air by his ribs and he felt the sharp edge grate across his flesh, barely grazing him, but leaving a hot, wet line.

  Desperately, he turned once again, just in time to knock aside another blow.

  He was clinging onto life by the fingernails and he knew it. He'd managed to stop them sticking him so far, but more through luck than judgement, and the constant flailing to defend himself left him no time to actually try and deal with one of them.

  Another spin and more blades.

  A line of fire drawn with a razor edge along his knuckles.

  More blades.

  A pain in the shoulder.

  The ring of steel on steel.

  A sharp pain in the calf.

  Turning back…

  His eyes widened as his original assailant's grinning head slid slowly from his shoulders, bouncing off the shoulder of the wounded kneeling man who clutched his ruined hip. Skiouros stared at the headless body, an arterial jet pumping into the air where his head had been.

  A Turkish officer in a fine crimson jacket and hat - one of those he'd seen on the hill, he thought - drew back his dripping blade.

  "Go" he snapped, glaring at Skiouros and then shifting his attention to the advancing pirates, eying them warily.

  The young Greek needed no further inducement. His legs propelled him towards the dock, out of the reach of the various blades coming at him from behind. Even as he ran, he realised that his unlikely saviour had disappeared off among the stalls. The officer had saved his life, but had only bought him a little time in the grand scheme, as the rest were now on his trail again, brandishing swords and baying for blood. Clearly the single Turk had no intention of dying at the hands of his countrymen, and who could blame him for that.

  The other three had stopped at the edge of the dock and were looking back at the martial activity, concerned. As Orsini spotted Skiouros out front at last, he alerted the others, pointing back along the riverbank, then at the Turks following him.

  Skiouros' ears picked up another shout from the market and he realised that Hassan and Mehmi were cutting across towards the dock, cutting off his escape route. The others seemed not to have noticed but at any moment the belligerent pirate would emerge from the market almost on their position, possibly with more men.

  Skiouros felt his spirits sink.

  The three of them had halted to allow him to catch up, but Skiouros also knew how much they needed to rest. Parmenio and Nicolo were out of breath, as evidenced by the fact that they stood with their hands on their knees, heaving in deep lungfuls of air. Orsini leaned against a mooring post to save the strength in his injured leg.

  It didn't take Skiouros long to take stock of what was happening.

  The town was in uproar high on the hill, officials and guards yelling, soldiers' pikes flashing in the sun near the church and above the market. There would be a couple of men on the dock, probably, but not many - just enough to watch for trouble. The three Spanish soldiers who had chased the Turkish sailors out to the riverbank were now themselves under attack. In all, there were guards here and there, but not enough and in too small a concentration to be of any real benefit to Skiouros and his frie
nds. Conversely, there were the best part of two dozen angry Turks converging on them. The four of them could fight, but not against that many and, with the weariness and weakness of the others, Skiouros would have to carry the lion's share of the fight, which he knew was beyond his ability.

  His eyes scoured the crowd beside which his three friends stood.

  The large skiff next to them had a strake that was painted in white and red and bore the inscription 'Orgoglio Genovese'. Genoese pride. The boat was almost loaded to the brim with goods, but there was just about room for a few men. The sailors were busy untying the lines.

  Skiouros felt his future - his destiny - slipping away from him, like a man hanging over a drop, trying to grip a slippery sill with numb fingers. That boat - that ship - could carry him to where he needed to go, along with his friends. But the sailors were leaving and if Skiouros tried to reach them and join them, he would simply bring all the Turks who were converging on the dock right to them.

  What had that damn Romani said a lifetime ago in Crete? Selfishness. And he had proven that to be true - despite his hopes to the contrary - when he had attempted to flee in Tunis and leave them to their fate. He had told himself then: 'never again'. Never again would he put his own good over that of his friends.

  "Climb aboard!" he yelled.

  His friends frowned in his direction and so Skiouros took a few loping strides forward, waving and pointing to the Genoese skiff. If the three of them made it aboard that ship, they would be free of the Turk.

  "No!" Cesare shouted.

  "Yes. Climb aboard!"

  Orsini was shaking his head and Skiouros waved his arms, demanding they board and get to safety. He couldn't go with them without damning them all, but he could see the three of them safe first. He waved madly but suddenly his view of the others was blocked as Mehmi and Hassan burst out of the market to the riverside between Skiouros and his friends.

  That sealed the matter. Nothing else for it now.

  With a deep breath and a sad smile at the shapes of his friends in the distance behind the bellowing, furious corsair, Skiouros ducked back into the market and began to pound along the narrow ways between market stalls. Hassan and his second in command were immediately on the move.

  As he ran up the slope, Skiouros could hear the bellowed commands and replies of Turks, moving back into the sprawling collection of stalls. He smiled to himself. That was perhaps his only remaining advantage: they had no idea he spoke their language - all barring the headless one by the river. He listened, training his hearing to the thick accent of the easterners among the Spaniards. There were sounds of local guards all over the place but, despite his incomprehension of their tongue, the locations suggested that they were creating some sort of perimeter to prevent the Turks escaping their grasp. Sensible in a way, but of little help to him right now. They would slowly move in, tightening the net until they trapped the Turks by the water, but that left the pirate crew plenty of time and space to deal with their fugitive in the market beforehand.

  Within the Spanish net, the Turks were forming their own. The bellowed commands and answers spoke of men arcing round to both sides, curving in ahead to seal off his escape route, driving him back to the riverside. He could hear his doom being planned in the shouts. Ducking left between a stall displaying copperware and a wool merchant, he aimed for the one area he hoped would bring him some relief - an area with no Turkish command yet - but even as he angled towards that side of the slope he heard a voice bellowing from a new position up there. He was surrounded, and all the corsairs needed to do was move slowly into the centre to catch him.

  Somewhere behind him down the slope, slowed by wounded foot and short stature respectively, Hassan and Mehmi were in pursuit. Despite the rabid hatred the captain bore Skiouros, and the man's clear skill with weapons, back downhill had become the sensible option - two men as opposed to two dozen. Clenching his teeth and shifting his sweaty, slippery grip on the sword hilt, Skiouros spun on his heel and headed back towards the shouts of the corsair captain.

  Two stalls further back, he paused to listen to the shouts once more and as he did so, his eyes fell upon the stall's contents. The trader had his back to Skiouros, deep in discussion with a fellow merchant at the stall behind, and the former thief, despite his vows, offered up a quick apology to God as his hand dipped into the nearest sack. A cloud of white powder bloomed up into the warm air as he patted the fine flour onto his face and lower arms. The white dust clung to his damp skin, absorbing the sweat of his palm and securing his grip as he swapped hands again with the sword. The beads of sweat that trickled from his hairline, brought on by all the exertion, drew strange, pink-grey lines down through the white, giving his skin a streaky, mottled effect.

  Half the battle in any encounter was surprise. How often in Istanbul had he avoided a direct confrontation simply by startling his opponent into inactivity long enough to escape?

  Pale as ash and curiously streaked, he ran on, ignoring the angry shout of the trader who had noticed the cloud of flour.

  Four stalls and two turns further on, he rounded a corner and came face to face with Mehmi.

  The squat officer's eyes bulged as he beheld Skiouros.

  The young Greek shifted his grip on the hilt in preparation, but Mehmi's sword dropped forgotten to his side as he sucked and spat, sucked and spat, his free hand coming up to pull at his earlobe so hard that Skiouros wondered if it might come off.

  Thank God it was Mehmi and not Hassan. Skiouros knew full well that in a duel with the corsair captain, he would be dead in half a dozen traded blows. Grinning a rictus mask, Skiouros ducked into the next line of stalls and descended the hill. He would have precious seconds on the diminutive Turk now and when you were the hunted, seconds were more valuable than gold or jewels.

  He could hear Mehmi one row over, still unmoving, chattering out a prayer to Allah to preserve him from witches and vengeful djinn. Thank you God for making the imp so superstitious!

  Back down at the lower reach of the market slope now, he was moving towards the river bank. More shouts issued from Hassan close by, and the focus of the closing net of Turks shifted to centre on him, even as the net of Spaniards closed outside that.

  A new hope began to grow in Skiouros' heart.

  If he could reach the river bank ahead of Hassan and his men, perhaps he could get out to the river? Perhaps the Genovese Pride's skiff had miraculously waited for him? Certainly, Cesare and the others would have tried to stop it leaving. Possibly they had not even gone themselves. But then, he realised that they had to have left. If they had remained ashore Hassan would have focused some of his attention on them, and some of the many calls would have involved them instead of focussing singly on him. Orsini had done as he was bade and they had left for the ship.

  Still, perhaps he could get there himself.

  Puffing and panting, sweat carrying white paste into the corner of his eyes, Skiouros burst out of the clutter of market stalls once more, emerging onto the riverbank almost at the dock. Though mere minutes had gone by, when he scoured the river for the Genovese skiff, he finally saw it being hauled aboard one of the carracks and no sign of his friends. Too late. Even now the Italian crew were bustling about, messing with lines and sails and all the myriad arcane tasks required to get a ship underway. With a visible effort, the anchor chain began to rise from the water.

  A shout from away downriver to the left drew his attention momentarily. A corsair of the Yarim Ay moving along the shore path had spotted him and was calling out to his shipmates. A quick glance the other way confirmed that another had been alerted beyond the dock - the net closed all too rapidly. There was now no sign of the few officials and guards from the dock. Whether they had fled to some place of safety or fallen foul of Hassan's bloodthirsty crew, he could not guess, but whatever the case, they would be no help. Nor, clearly, would the local civilians - the myriad merchants, traders, labourers and citizens were judiciously ignoring all this fuss and the
strange, white-faced man in their midst and staying out of the way of armed men, whatever their nationality.

  His eyes fell upon another skiff, this one busy untying from a post a few yards from the end of the dock. The boat's top strake was painted in rich gold and green, and its crew - packed tightly within - were busy unshipping oars.

  Jogging across the open riverside towards the boat, Skiouros watched more Turks arriving at the edge of the market, drawn faster by the cries of their shipmates.

  He was pinned at the shore as the corsair net closed in. The guards were coming behind them, and very likely the Turks would be facing a number of charges from the local authorities. Spanish justice was infamous though, for its monetary value. After decades of endless expense driving out the Moors, the new Spain of Fernando and Isabella would turn a blind eye to many things for appropriate recompense, or so Parmenio had vouchsafed more than once on their recent journey. Hassan and his fellow captains would have to pay heavily, but they would be free in the end.

  None of this did Skiouros any good, of course. Skiouros, who would be dead of two dozen sword blows before ever a Spanish pike was levelled at the corsairs.

  With a last look up and down, Skiouros tried to find another way out. Perhaps the Genovese ship had other skiffs heading back from shore.

  No.

  The day was drawing to a close as the sun lowered, turning the world to molten gold and as the light waned, so did all activity in the port. The ships would want their boats back aboard before dark, and the merchants would pack up their stalls any time now - many were already doing so.

  There were now only three ship's boats left on the shore line. Two were half loaded and would still be here for at least a quarter of an hour. The other - the brightly painted one with a full crew - was already a few feet out, two oars being utilised to heave it away from the gravel and out into the current. The fishing boats were coming ashore, but they would be of no use. He had to go now and put his trust in a God that had, frankly, been a bit of a let-down so far.