‘My father and my grandfather fought with this sword, my father at Djerba.’
‘It will drown you.’
‘Then, Commander, I ask permission to drown with it.’
Giustiniani swiped his brow with the back of his hand. They were all sweating, even in the sea. ‘Permission granted. Young fool.’
He looked in the direction of the beach.
‘We make towards it and huddle out of sight there until nightfall.’ He pushed off from the rock. ‘And pray for cloud tonight.’
Nicholas glanced up. The sky mocked them with its benevolent azure from east to west. Tonight would be as bright and moonlit as ever.
2
They huddled, panting, half in and half out of the water, on the seaward side of one last broken outcrop of rock before the coast flattened out into a wide sandy bay. The sun was halfway down the western sky. They fumbled for flasks in their bundles with white wrinkled fingers, and each tasted. Two of them were turned salt.
‘Damn it all,’ said Smith savagely.
‘Speak only necessities,’ said Giustiniani.
The other flasks were handed round and they drank small draughts. They would take more every half-hour or so. The summer day was long, nightfall was far off. They covered their heads with cloths. Waiting like this, sun-baked yet waterlogged, their mission already half ruined, was more exhausting than swimming.
At last it was dusk, and then darkness, and their hearts were as heavy as their sodden possessions. They would have an hour before the moon came up on their left as they walked north. They would have to go.
They crawled on to the sandy beach, all eyes, all ears. Not a sound came to them. They left off their boots and Giustiniani began the long walk, just in the shallows to kill the scent. But moving painfully slowly so as not to make a splash. They walked out across the wide bay feeling like actors crossing a bright stage. The whipcrack of Turkish musket, the skull-splitting impact, their slow fall into the small waves, the billowing red stain . . . They could picture it all.
Yet they made it across the bay without mishap. They knelt in the deeper shadows below a ridge of rock, and Mazzinghi began to unbundle so he could wring out his blanket.
‘Not yet,’ said Giustiniani.
The young knight looked puzzled. ‘It weighs so heavy. Like carrying a mule on my back.’
Giustiniani gestured back towards the sea.
Mazzinghi rolled his eyes. ‘Oh no, for the love of—’
‘For the love of God and our duty,’ said Giustiniani, ‘it is back to sea with us. The country is swarming with Turks, the moon is nearly up, and we must put miles between them and us. So it is round the coast we go, weary as we are. And in darkness.’
Mazzinghi hung his handsome head, curly locks plastered to his cheek.
‘But come, Brother, we are still young and vigorous, are we not?’ said Giustiniani. Born in the Year of Grace 1509.
Mazzinghi managed a weary smile. If this old dog could do it, so could he.
They were allowed a hard biscuit or two, salty and damp, and more freshwater. ‘But pray we find a decent spring soon,’ said Smith.
The coast beyond was more broken and rocky, and there was less danger of drowning. But the water was now liquid black, spangled with starlight, the rocks eroded and rough, their hands and feet already pitted and scratched, stinging and humming with the salt sting. There was little wind and small waves, but strong currents and eddies hauled them to and fro, dragged at their leaden limbs, tormented them. Water slopped and boomed in caves beneath the cliffs so dark they could not even see into them. What monsters lurked there? Nicholas and Hodge could not help but picture huge dark-finned fish circling, jagged jaws agape. This was the landscape Andromeda was chained in. The thought of a beautiful naked girl chained to a rock might usually heat the loins. But no, thought Nicholas with bitter humour, squeezing his reddened eyes free of blinding salt water. Not a stirring. Nor would any Perseus come to save them. It was just them and the sea and the sky, and their strength and stubborn will to embrace their predestined fate.
They scrambled repeatedly up over rock, dripping wet, boots laced round their necks cascading water, descended the other side, dropped back into the water, swam a few yards, scrambled out over another rock; or swam along a sheer cliff face, trying to clutch to whatever tiny fragments of mica or embedded quartz they could find, fingers torn, fingernails now as soft as wet rag, bony flanks buffeted and bruised by the swell.
And then, their eyes now accustomed to the starlit darkness, they were suddenly blinded by the appearance of the moon over the western sea. No comfort at all. Like a white burning torch, a flare of pure magnesia, held in their faces, burning their eyeballs. A cold interrogator.
‘Some trick of Pedro Deza’s,’ muttered Nicholas.
Part joke, part exhausted hallucination.
They were all in a dream when they heard a bell tower tolling midnight from far inland. Some priest would be kneeling defiantly in a lonely church, dedicated to some saint they knew nothing of – St Spiridon, St Mamas – before a single taper, an icon of the Virgin, praying for the destruction of the Turks.
Giustiniani lay on his belly on a flat white rock. Soon the others were sitting around him, heads bowed, puddles of water spreading round them.
‘That priest should learn to worship in silence,’ said Abdul. ‘Or the Turks will teach him soon.’
Smith said at last, ‘I suppose we walk now.’
Giustiniani raised his head, and then rolled over and hauled himself up from his undignified position.
‘We walk until dawn,’ he said, pulling on his boots. ‘But let us get over there, under those trees.’
They drained their flasks and ate half their cheese and some biscuit. After half an hour’s rest they felt slightly more alive again.
They stood and wrung out their woollen blankets – a two-man job, one at each end.
‘I can’t believe we brought blankets,’ said Nicholas. ‘In this heat.’
‘They make fine sacks,’ said Stanley, ‘soft bedding on hard ground, and in the Troödos, you will be glad of their warmth, believe me. It snows in winter there as hard as in England, and in spring the snowmelt comes down the gorges in torrents.’
They wiped their swords dry as best they could, and the last firearm among them was broodingly inspected. Smith and his treasured Persian jezail. There was no way he would have abandoned that. But it needed a soak in fresh water soon, and then a good oil. As for their gunpowder – it would need a week of drying. Until then, they felt as vulnerable as lambs.
‘Do you think Nikos sold us to the Turks?’ asked Nicholas.
Smith shook his head. ‘He didn’t have time. There was a marching column there anyway. Just our ill luck. Turks everywhere. The island is swarming.’
Lala Pasha had brought an army of a hundred thousand men to Cyprus, it was said. An exaggeration, surely. Yet some forty thousand had come to Malta, six years before. The Ottoman Empire seemed inexhaustible.
‘Don’t look now,’ said Stanley, and all froze at his tone. ‘But there is a pair of yellow eyes watching us from behind that carob tree.’
Nicholas whipped round – he couldn’t help himself. And there was a curious goat, staring at them out of the darkness.
He sighed. ‘I’d call you a damned fool if you weren’t a knight and I a mere penniless vagabond.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ said Stanley.
Smith was reaching slowly for his crossbow, salt-encrusted though it was, his eyes never leaving the munching goat. But just as he brought the quarrel towards the stock, the goat turned and ambled off unhurriedly, soon lost to view in the thorn scrub.
‘Run after it,’ suggested Stanley helpfully.
Smith dropped the crossbow, scowling. ‘You run after it, blubberguts.’
‘We can’t risk a cooking fire anyway,’ said Mazzinghi.
‘You mean you have never eaten raw goat?’ said Stanley. ‘Bloody liver, st
ill warm from the paunch? Brother John here wouldn’t eat it any other way. Though admittedly he is rather primitive.’
‘On your feet, you gossiping women,’ said Giustiniani. ‘The Turks are wasting no time at Nicosia, be sure of that. So neither may we.’ He glanced up. ‘Five hours till dawn. I want to be fifteen miles along the coast by then. You can sleep in the day. And after that, it’s inland, and the mountains.’
Even getting to their feet was weary work. Their boots were sodden and chafing.
They went west.
3
After hours of walking, stumbling, eyes closing as they walked, they came to a desolate peninsula. The moon now hanging in the west, the faintest hint of grey dawn out over the sea. It was a barren spit of land, wind-scoured rock and scrub, soon baking under the burning sun. There were small caves cut in the rocks.
Nicholas came to the edge of a drop and there before him, entirely below ground level, hidden from view until now, was a substantial courtyard with fine stone columns, and further chambers opening off into darkness so thick it was like black dust.
‘What is this place?’ he murmured.
‘Some kind of ancient burial ground,’ said Stanley. ‘But a good place to find shelter in the day.’
Hodge said, ‘I’m not steppin’ down there. This place is brimful of witchery or my name’s not Hodge.’
‘Then lie out on the rocks and cook like a side of beef,’ said Stanley. ‘There is no other shelter.’
Abdul squatted and stared down, more fascinated than afraid.
‘I know such places,’ he said. ‘In my country we say they are the haunt of djinns, but really they are more like the tombs of the Egyptians, in the time of Jahiliyah.’
Smith said roughly, ‘Speak a proper tongue.’
‘That is to say, in the time of darkness. Before the coming of the Prophet, peace be upon him.’
‘Plague and boils,’ muttered Smith. ‘Travelling to war with a Mussulman. We must be moonstruck.’
Abdul smiled. ‘Where there is chaos there is opportunity. Besides, you know we Moors are not always the closest friends with the Turk.’
‘You are for yourself and yourself alone, is that it?’
‘No one cares for me as well as I do. Now,’ he nodded downwards, ‘the tombs of the Egyptians are famous for their hidden treasures.’
‘That is all you have come for, in this accursed war? To hunt for treasure?’
‘You keep your God, I’ll take the gold.’
He had less soul than a dog, this one.
Abdul read Smith’s thoughts and grinned, and then began to climb down the rock face into the hidden courtyard.
They lay up in the shadowy recesses of the courtyard, ate and drank, talked softly.
‘Do we believe the army of Lala Mustafa is really a hundred thousand strong?’ said Mazzinghi.
Stanley grimaced. ‘We do not know, and will never know. But it is certainly enough for the job.’
‘And seven of us,’ said Mazzinghi, ‘one a Moor. We must be crazy. Why are we here?’
‘A knight is worth his weight in gold to any Christian army,’ said Smith. ‘We are the elite. We are worth a dozen Janizaries apiece. Four of us, that’s . . .’
There was a long pause.
‘Forty-eight,’ said Stanley kindly.
‘Of course. Any fool knows that.’ He half-drew his sword and then slammed it back home. ‘Anyway, the devil invented arithmetic.’
They were so exhausted, Giustiniani did not move them on at dusk. Instead he sent Smith and Stanley out to find fresh water under cover of darkness. Smith was also desperate to clean off his jezail, in a horse trough if necessary. They might steal some bread too, God forgive them. The rest could have a few more hours’ sleep, but must go before dawn.
‘Neither Turk not Greek will come here,’ said Giustiniani softly. ‘They will all believe it is haunted by demons.’
Smith and Stanley returned with water and wine, bread and olive oil. Smith used the oil on his jezail. Not the best thing, but it would serve for now. His powder had been drying all day, although what the addition of salt might do to the mix was uncertain. Anyway, he could not fire. The sound would only bring worse danger.
Abdul returned from several forays into the dark chambers within, only to return with nothing but the stains of bat droppings on his knees and elbows. ‘And even I do not care to go farther,’ he said. ‘It is an ill place.’
He slept seated cross-legged, as if ready to flee more quickly.
Nicholas slept uneasily on his damp blanket. There was a stale odour of something ancient and unholy in this place. Above them the square of starlit sky.
He woke some time in the dead of night to hear scuttling in the darkness. He propped himself up on one elbow. It came again. Not a scuttling. A slithering. His blood froze.
‘Stanley,’ he whispered. ‘Stanley.’
The knight awoke and tousled his shaggy blond hair and stared at him.
‘Listen.’
They listened.
‘A bat,’ said Stanley. ‘Come, Ingoldsby, you are too old for such childish imaginings.’
‘Don’t condescend to me,’ hissed Nicholas, fear making him angry. ‘Your ears are so deafened with years of cannon fire, you hear as well as an old maid. I know a snake or a bat when I hear one, and that was no damned bat.’
There was another sound. Stanley looked puzzled. Beggars, orphan children seeking shelter . . . ?
Nevertheless he shook Smith awake. Smith was on his feet with drawn sword in an instant.
And then, with sheer terror, Nicholas saw the demon crouching in the mouth of the chamber, eerily lit by the moonlight, hollow black eyes staring at them. His face otherwise was horribly featureless. Nicholas was shaking. He could not even stand.
The palpable dread in the air had made the others stir and begin to waken too.
But Smith was already driving his sword back home in its scabbard. ‘Fine spies we make,’ he growled. ‘Gentlemen, we have been sleeping in the middle of a spital-house. A leper colony.’
Abdul was up the walls and out on to the plateau like a monkey, jabbering about leprosy.
The rest rose quickly and gathered their belongings.
‘Our brother Reynaldo, medical chaplain back on Malta,’ said Stanley, ‘always said that a strong and healthy man will not be stricken with leprosy, even if he sleep with a leprous whore.’
‘For my part,’ said Giustiniani, ‘though I esteem Fra Reynaldo as much as any, it is a thing I’d not put to the test. Gentlemen. It is time to march.’
They came out on to the plateau, rubbed their eyes and drank water.
Behind them came a strange, small figure. In the bright moonlight, Nicholas now saw that it was a boy of some thirteen or fourteen years of age. He wore a loincloth and his legs and feet were hale and bare. But his poor ravaged arms and hands were covered in filthy bandages, and his head and face completely hidden under more bandages but for his eyes. In his hand he clutched a small bell, fingers round the clapper for silence. He stared at them intently.
‘Move on,’ said Giustiniani.
Something made Nicholas hesitate. The boy wanted to communicate with them. Yet how could he talk with bandages over his mouth? What mouth he had left from the ravages of that terrible affliction. His heart went out to him.
The boy stood and watched as Nicholas went towards him. Those dark Greek eyes stared back at him. Then the boy touched his chest, gestured out to all of them, and then widely eastwards. Towards the Troödos mountains.
‘He wants to come with us.’
‘We have a dubious Moor with us already,’ said Smith, ‘and only one firearm between us, well salted. Time runs on, and Kyrenia is already fallen. All we need do now is add a leper to our party to cook up a truly filthy broth.’
‘Wait,’ said Nicholas. ‘I remember you saying about all the monasteries in the Troödos. The holy men.’
‘What of it?’
‘
The holy men and . . . healers.’
Stanley looked at him very steadily. ‘You think the leper boy wants to come with us to find a healer?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘And perhaps be our guide?’
‘Our guide?’ Smith snorted. ‘He cannot even speak, his tongue is rotted in his head.’
‘But he can walk. Look.’
Smith and Stanley exchanged glances.
‘And nothing happens without the hand of Providence. You have said this yourself many a time, Edward Stanley.’
Giustiniani looked undecided. The boy was inching closer to them, but not too close, like a dog many times whipped, but desperate.
A few minutes later they headed out across the plateau. Seven of them, barely armed, led by a leper, against an army of a hundred thousand.
The plateau was burning hot and exposed in the day, and the rock glaring white. Their eyeballs throbbed, their heads hurt.
‘Speak if you see a fire-pit,’ said Smith.
After a time Hodge pointed. Giustiniani called a halt and Smith went over and squatted beside a shallow blackened pit. He laid his hand flat in the ash.
‘Not recent.’ He picked among the cinders. ‘Take up a handful of black ash, spit, and then blacken around your eyes.’
‘All of you,’ said Giustiniani. ‘Help each other. It will lessen the glare off the ground, and keep us dark as blackamoors in the night.’
Stanley smeared Nicholas’s face. He stood back. ‘You look like a beaten husband.’ He grinned. ‘Such is marriage.’
Later a thorn went right through Hodge’s boot and they had to stop to dig it out. Even then the tip remained, reddening and painful. Smith made him bandage it. ‘It’ll dissolve in your flesh in time.’
They walked on a while more, Hodge limping. At last they stopped as the sun rose high, lying up in the paltry shade of sparse thorn trees, pouring with sweat, dry with thirst. The mountains seemed far off.
‘Prickles and thorns,’ cursed Mazzinghi. ‘Every leaf on this island is barbed.’
After a long while Smith said, ‘What’s the difference between a cypress leaf and a French rapier?’
The Last Crusaders: Blood Red Sea Page 16