‘There is more than one way to board this vessel.’
*
Tigran nodded to his companion across the road. Kulagyoz sat on the grassy shore some thirty feet from the shipyard wall, idly mending a fishing net he had picked up from a pile of refuse on the way, chewing on a clove and looking for all the world like a local fisherman at work in the hot sun. Kulagyoz nodded back at him in confirmation that all was still apparently uneventful. Tigran relaxed back into the shade of the doorway of a wooden house that sat below the Galata walls with a good view of the eastern gate through which Dragi and the others had entered.
All was quiet, barring the constant sounds of sawing and hammering from within the walls of the great shipyard, and the only life in the street had been a shoeless urchin who had wandered past earlier with a slightly misshapen toy ball. All was quiet, but Tigran was prepared – he had a knife at his belt, as did all six of them, though he did not expect to have to use it. The plan would succeed or fail without them, all in the shipyard. Most likely fail, in fact. It was foolish of Dragi and the three foreigners to enter the shipyard, especially to face such an important personage who would be well defended. Tigran felt a little disheartened by this reckless plan of action. Dragi and his friends may succeed, but most likely they would die in the attempt and the six of them on watch would wait until dark or until the bodies were carried out, and then return to Aksaray to report to old Mustafa that Dragi had failed and had managed to get this apparently-important king-maker killed in the process.
But he would do his duty, regardless. He would watch the walls and if a paşa attempted to leave – there would only be one such important man in the shipyard – he would leap upon the man and put a knife to his spine.
He yawned.
And gagged.
The hand that slapped around his mouth and nose, cutting off his air and all sound was large and hairy, so strong and applied with such force that Tigran felt his nose crack under the pressure. He felt the prick of a needle point through his shirt and vest, the tip of a misericorde resting over his heart. Panic flooded Tigran the Romani cartwright, for even the slightest move in defence of his life would almost certainly result in that long, slender knife sliding between his ribs.
His eyes darted to Kulagyoz, but his heart sank as something hissed from the shadows of another nearby building and smacked into his friend’s back with a dull thud, the man folding instantly and slumping forward over his broken net.
‘What… what do you want?’ Tigran managed in a desperate whisper.
His only answer was the agony of the blade sliding through the flesh, between his ribs, seeking his heart. Tigran looked up as the blade turned, speeding his passing, his disbelieving eyes meeting a cold, ice-blue gaze as his spirit fled. His pulse faltered as his last breaths gasped, mixed with blood.
Chapter thirteen – Of blades and hunters
May 27th - Two days to the festival
DRAGI stood tapping the timber of the hull, which curved up and out above them like some colossal ligneous cliff, talking low and quiet at first. Some distance away around the curve of the bow, the group of workers at the ramp began to step up their task, several men hammering rhythmically at the timbers, driving pegs into extra beams added to the ramp to take the phenomenal weight of the titan as it slid out into the Golden Horn. The noise, especially as another pair began to saw extra timbers, was immense, and echoed like the arguments of gods around the huge shed.
Dragi heaved a sigh of relief at the extra aural cover the sawing and hammering provided, which would drown out all but the loudest of noises and, from the quantity of timber they were preparing, would go on for some time.
‘We have to move fast,’ he said. ‘The guards see nothing amiss, but if we tarry too long they will become suspicious.’
‘How do we get aboard?’ Skiouros murmured.
With a smile, Dragi bent his knees, crouched a little, and then sprang upwards with vigour. His fingers reached the timbers of the external housing for the oars some nine feet from the ground, and his hands wrapped around the lip, allowing the Romani captain to haul himself up into the space from where, when afloat, one of the great oars would project. As the Romani disappeared into the darkness of the interior, Skiouros caught Parmenio’s look of disbelief and smiled. Then Dragi reappeared, reaching down through the hole with both hands.
Skiouros stretched, rubbed his wounded shoulder gingerly and then jumped, catching his friend’s hands with his good arm and allowing Dragi to pull him up into the oar hole, almost separating his other shoulder in the process. Dragi then reached down again and clenched his teeth as Diego jumped, the Romani grabbing his wrists and hauling him up into the ship with a grunt. A moment later, and with no small amount of cursing and imprecations, Parmenio joined them in the gloomy interior of the greatest Ottoman ship ever built.
‘Where now?’ Skiouros whispered as he looked around the darkness in trepidation, crouched on a rowers’ bench.
Dragi tapped his lip thoughtfully. ‘From here and down will just be oar benches and hold space. Above us will be the main gun deck – unusually for a kadirga, Göke carries a full array of cannon inboard from bow to stern. From there we can reach the main deck, but we would be well advised to stay below and not risk bringing the other five guards down if we can avoid it. The door that Sincabı-Paşa took will have led him aft, and there will be steps back there that can lead us up to where he is.’ He listened carefully. The sound of the workmen was a little muted by the ship’s hull, but would still mask sounds like opening doors and footsteps, especially to the soldiers on deck. He smiled.
‘Also: one deck up, abaft, we will likely find the armoury. If all goes well they will have stocked it and from there we move up quietly and quickly until we find them.’ He smiled at Skiouros. ‘I told you God would provide, and in this instance, luck and the navy both aid him.’
‘And what then?’ Parmenio asked.
‘And then you and I and Diego silence the paşa’s men as quickly as we can while Skiouros deals with the man in charge.’
‘Three against five. I don’t like the odds,’ Parmenio grumbled.
‘I could always pop up top and make it three against ten?’ Dragi snapped. ‘Come on.’
Without further pause, Dragi stalked off towards the rear of the ship. Skiouros looked about himself as he followed, impressed at the scale of the vessel. With three full decks and several smaller ones to fore and aft, it bore more resemblance to a western carrack or caravel than its forebears, though on this particular deck, with just one huge open space lined with low benches, it still resembled the traditional galley of the Turkish navy, just hidden beneath layers of sailing ship. She really was a monster. Their footsteps echoed around the empty shell of the deck, and to Skiouros they sounded deafening, forcing him to remind himself that the workmen’s racket outside would cover the sounds enough that they would only be audible in this great space and not to the enemy above.
An open stairway up into the next deck lay amidships, next to another that led down into the hold and, as they approached, Dragi motioned for quiet, slipping from a fast pace to a virtual creep. Despite the fact that the gun deck lay between the four of them and the paşa’s men atop, there were no doors on the stairwell, and there was at least a small chance that sound could carry up two decks and give them away. Skiouros listened nervously, but could hear nothing over the distant sawing and hammering. Once they had passed the faint glow of light that filtered down from above and returned to the gloom heading aft, they picked up the pace again, worrying no more about the volume.
Swiftly they approached the steps at the rear and, with Dragi in the lead, began to ascend. The Romani kept to quiet, steady footfalls now, aware that they were closing on their prey. Pausing at the top to peer into the gloom of the gun room, Dragi motioned for them to follow and emerged onto that deck. The gun ports, still awaiting the cannon that lay in piles in the shipyard grouped by size, let in more light than the oar hol
es had, given that they faced out and not down, and consequently this wide space was slightly less dim than the lower deck.
The aft section of the deck was dominated by a huge capstan that rose through the timber above to the next deck. The steps climbed again to that upper space, and to the rear lay two doors, side by side, granting access to enclosed stern rooms.
‘Too deep down for a captain’s cabin,’ Parmenio hissed, earning a searing glance from Dragi along with a motion to keep quiet. The Romani pointed up, and as everyone strained, they could hear the faint, muted sounds of conversation above.
Parmenio leaned close to his friends and whispered in a voice like the wafting of a cobweb in a breeze. ‘Probably the armoury and the infirmary. The main magazine will be in the hold for both safety and balance.’
Dragi nodded and crept to one of the doors. Taking a breath, he grasped the door handle and turned it. Thankfully, with the newness of construction, the metalwork was well oiled and the wood had not yet picked up a creak. Drawing a breath, ready for the unknown, Dragi slowly swept the door open. This room, far enough above the waterline to allow for a few comforts, had a small window in the stern which let in enough light to see by well enough.
‘My mistake,’ Parmenio whispered as they took in the basic fittings of what appeared to be a galley. Though Skiouros had seen the kitchens of plenty of ships over the past few years, its presence still came as something of a surprise here. The vessels of the Ottoman navy had always been basic galleys of one sort or another and consequently their modus operandi had required them to put into port each evening. Turkish ships were not designed for extended durations at sea, and consequently were not equipped with such things as armouries and galleys. What they were witnessing with Göke was not just the launching of an outsize ship as an admiral’s flagship as they had first imagined. Clearly this represented a shift in naval thinking. The Turkish world was changing, moving forward. Skiouros found himself picturing a fleet of these monsters rolling across the waves like leviathans, heading for Heraklion. They would be every bit the match for the Venetian warships, and then some.
He shivered at the image.
The four returned to the main space of the deck, Parmenio earning another sharp glance from Dragi as his boot creaked on a badly-fitted board. The Genoese sailor rolled his eyes and, stepping past the Romani, quietly opened the other door.
‘Wonderful,’ he whispered, pulling the door back to reveal what was clearly an infirmary – another advance for Bayezid’s navy. An on-board physician to treat the inevitable sick and wounded among the crew and the rowers was new to the Turkish fleet. Skiouros slid into the room and looked around. The infirmary was already stocked, from surgical kits to blankets, towels and rags to racks of potions and salves, all carefully labelled in a neat script. The presence of a number of medical texts on a shelf, including the ‘Kitab al-Tasrif’ of Al-Zahrawi and the ‘Cerahiyyetü ’l-Haniyya’ of Serafeddin Sabuncuoglu, suggested that the ship’s medic had kitted out the room himself.
In the absence of a well-appointed armoury, Skiouros crossed to the rear wall, beneath the window, and ran his hands along the boxes and cases of equipment until he found a particularly large knife, almost the length of his forearm. Wincing as his mind prompted the question as to its intended use and his imagination attempted to supply suggestions, Skiouros stepped back towards the door. It was no crusader blade, but it was far better than nothing. With a smile, he spotted a crate of splints in the corner and selected a larger one. While not as fine and well-weighted as his macana stick, it would still fetch a heavy blow to a man’s head, if his shoulder would cope with the swing. Brandishing his two weapons, he stepped back out into the gloom and waited. Dragi followed suit, emerging from the physician’s room with two heavy knives. Diego selected the next largest blades in the room, and Parmenio huffed irritably as he scanned the tools, realising that he was stuck with little more than scalpels or saws.
Grumbling almost silently under his breath, the Genoese sailor dipped back into the galley and emerged with one knife and a large, heavy brass ladle. He rolled his eyes again as he re-joined the group and Skiouros gave him a smile. ‘Don’t knock it,’ he whispered. ‘The janissaries use a ceremonial one of those as a weapon too.’
‘Very handy when they go to war against a tureen of peppered belly-pork stew.’
Skiouros had to stifle a chuckle and the four men turned at the sound of a raised voice from above. Whoever it was, it sounded angry and, from the hint of steely command in the tone, Skiouros could only imagine it was his counterpart berating his men.
Dragi pointed upwards and then moved to the stairs, testing them carefully to make sure they didn’t creak as he started to climb, staying to one side to put the least possible pressure on the boards and avoid potential noises.
Again, the group paused as the Romani reached the top and peered out into the open area beneath the quarterdeck. Cannon ports at the sides illuminated the space, and a door ahead would lead out onto the main deck – the very door through which Sincabı-Paşa had entered the ship. As he emerged, Skiouros found himself straining to hear the five soldiers out there talking, but all he could hear was the interminable battering of hammers and rasping of saws.
The stairs ended here. Above was only a small aft deck which would likely house the cabin of the reis, and that would be accessible only from the quarterdeck. There were three doors leading to rooms at the rear of this area, and the sound of the raised voice still haranguing his men came from the central one.
Not daring to speak, Skiouros pointed to the left and right doors and then gestured with his blade and stick, trying to convey the suggestion that they check the side rooms for a potential armoury, but Dragi shook his head. He was right: they were too close to the enemy now to risk alerting them through a noisy search of the adjoining rooms.
Using hand signals only, Dragi motioned to the Greek to take the door and open it, stepping back to the side and letting the other three in first. Skiouros nodded. The five soldiers would have to be taken care of fast. Dragi then gestured to Diego to move left and Parmenio right. The pair nodded their understanding and readied their makeshift weapons.
Skiouros took a steadying breath. This was it. Four men against six, and it had to be quick and as quiet as possible. Too much racket and the other soldiers out on deck would be alerted, making the odds so much less favourable.
Stepping forward, the young Greek reached out for the door handle and almost died of fright that very second as the handle turned beneath his grip. Instinct ruling him far more than conscious decision, he let go and stepped back to one side, behind the door as it began to open. Suddenly aware of the unexpected change in plans, the others reacted swiftly, stepping sharply away against the cabin walls, leaving only open space in front of the door.
The first man out, a moustachioed ghazi with a darker skin-tone that marked him as a southern Anatolian Turk from close to the border of Mamluk Syria, wore a chastened, embarrassed expression. The second man, following close on his heel, looked equally unhappy through his bearded, Balkan-hued, lined face. Further footsteps announced the approach of the others within. Skiouros watched as Dragi emerged from the shadows like some demon of ancient legend, stepping behind one of the blissfully ignorant soldiers and swiping one of his knives across the man’s throat even as he pushed the other up under the ribcage, seeking his heart.
As the man died, gasping quietly, only aware of his attacker’s existence as the life flooded out of him, Diego stepped with catlike grace from the far side, in front of his surprised prey, one blade jabbing out three times in quick succession and ripping into his chest while the other slid up beneath the man’s chin, sliding through his mouth and deep into his brain. He shuddered and frothed for a moment before falling from the Spaniard’s blades as he withdrew them.
Skiouros stared with wondrous horror at the efficient butchery perpetrated by his friends. Two heartbeats had passed and already the odds were balanced. As t
he two men finished off their prey, a third soldier stepped through the door, noting what had happened to his companions, and opened his mouth to shout a warning back into the room.
The man’s head snapped to one side as a spray of blood and three teeth spattered and rattled against the door, his face battered and flattened by the heavy brass spoon end of the outsized ladle. Parmenio gave the man with the broken face no time to recover as he pulled back his ladle and struck again, this time bringing the weighty end down in an overhand blow and smacking the stunned soldier between the eyes.
Not even bothering with his knife, Parmenio gave the man a hefty kick in the crotch and pushed him back through the door where he fell against the other two soldiers, who were finally aware that something was wrong. The pile of men staggered back into the chamber – a navigation and chart room by the look of it – and fell to the floor. Skiouros passed the grinning Parmenio, brandishing his ladle lovingly, and stepped into the room first, the others closing in behind him.
Parmenio’s victim was out of the fight. Not mortally wounded, but thoroughly stunned and disorientated, collapsed on the floor, his eyes rolled up into his head. The other two soldiers – one huge ogre of a man and one hatchet-faced northerner – were floundering on the floor, trying to pull themselves together.
At the far end of the cabin, close to the window, stood Skiouros’ curious doppelganger. The paşa opened his mouth to shout for help, but then his gaze fell upon the man leading this intrusion and his eyes widened in stunned recognition. Lightly stepping around the fallen men, Skiouros advanced on the king-breaker, Sincabı-Paşa, his long knife and his makeshift cudgel held out to the sides ready for trouble.
Behind Skiouros the other three were now appearing through the doorway. The sight of the extra intruders broke the spell and the man opened his mouth again. Skiouros leapt for him, trying to silence him before he could utter a word, but Sincabı-Paşa was fast – faster by far than Skiouros was expecting. Another facet in his reflection of the former street-thief?
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