by Ned Minkov
Chapter III
His path of life – by the Devil wrought:
In his wake – death and ruins burning;
The Majestueuse was floating gracefully on the quiet waters off the Sardinian shores. Mild wind filled out the sails of the large three-mast galley as it entered the Strait of Bonifacio between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. Rather than looming larger upon the approach of the vessel, the coasts appeared to be receding to the eyes of the crew, for a thick fog had swathed the strait. Now the men had gathered on the main-deck, desperately straining their eyes to pierce through the impenetrable gray curtain. On the aft-deck stood the stout figure of the captain – Pierre Grimoard – barking commands to the helmsman, his eyes set on the leaden world to the fore of the ship. The general tension had got the better of him, too. In his mind, he was cursing their bad luck. They had had to lift anchor from the port of Marseille early the previous day. Pierre himself had chosen the time of departure, being well aware of the peculiarities of the route. The Majestueuse was supposed to reach the Strait of Bonifacio by dusk, before the fog – so typical of the place – settled over the treacherous passage. But his precautions had proven futile, for another factor – much weightier than his authority – had postponed the departure with a few hours. Hence the crew had found themselves struggling to pick their way through the narrows between Sardinia and the Maddalena islands.
The latter islands were three bits of land off the north-eastern coast of Sardinia. The waters separating them from the large island were shallow, but sheltered from the roughness of the Strait. Normally, the depth would have been a problem for the large galley, so Pierre would never have chosen this route. But, unlike during its usual voyages, when it carried loads of precious cargo, this time the Majestueuse was empty and therefore light, but for a very important passenger, accompanied by his guards. Pierre did not know who the man was, for he had boarded the vessel in secret, wrapped in a hooded mantle. The captain had been ordered to carry out the transportation through a letter by the Count of Provence himself. The name of the passenger had not been mentioned, only that he had to be shipped to Naples. Pierre had known better than to inquire about him – the promised payment was enough information for him.
‘Larboard!’ a shout from the crew split the silence, startling Pierre. ‘There was something in the fog, did you see it?’ It was one of the sailors raising the alarm, drawing everyone’s attention to the railing on the left of the deck.
The captain tried to penetrate the grayish curtain to no avail. The fog stood still. The leaden water of the strait was motionless, only slightly stirred by the galley’s prominent hull.
Pierre flipped his gaze back to the fore of the ship. The silhouettes of rocks could hardly be made out against the mist, wrapping the shoreline.
‘Two rudders to larboard, then steady as she goes!’ he ordered the helmsman.
As the galley began turning slowly, another cry came from the crew on the deck, this time followed by agitated clamour among the men:
‘It’s a ship! Captain, she’s heading towards us!’
Pierre saw a bow, then a whole galley, just a bit smaller than the Majestueuse, tearing the fog apart and heading straight towards them. By instinct, he made to shout an order to the helmsman, but it was too late – the heavy bronze-plated bow struck the side of the Majestueuse with a thunderous crack. Splinters of wood went flying in all directions. The men on the ship were sent down to the board by the sheer force of the impact.
Pierre reeled, managed to clutch at the rail of the aft-deck. Once stable, he began examining the damage the crash had inflicted on his ship. The larboard was shattered. Luckily, it was the upper section that had taken the blow and the bow of the other galley had not wedged into it, causing the Majestueuse to drift slightly off course. As it slowly moved round the other ship’s side, Pierre walked to the left section of the stern to take a closer look at its deck. Nobody was to be seen aboard. Loose sails and ropes hung all over from the masts above. Apart from their waving in the gentle breeze, not a single motion stirred the stagnation on board the vessel.
A ghost ship.
The confusion and alarm among the crew having subsided, the men had once again gathered by the larboard. They were glancing curiously at the intruder, muffled whispers revealing their unrest.
‘Throw the hooks over the railings, lads,’ Pierre shouted to them. ‘Pull her near, so that we can examine this lady in distress!’
A husky man stepped in front of the other sailors. Although looking tough, he spoke with the shyness of a boy.
‘Is it reasonable, Captain?’ he asked. ‘She looks like a drifting tomb to me. She is either abandoned by its crew and there is nothing on board, or she is carrying the dead bodies of her men.’
Nods and whispers of agreement came from among the other sailors.
Pierre Grimoard had spent enough time among the likes of them and was only too familiar with the superstition of seamen. But he was a captain and it was a question of honour and duty not to turn his back on fellow sailors in trouble.
‘Do as you’re told’, he ordered again. ‘Stay here, if you will. I will go and find out myself the plight of that ship.’
The crewmen did not seem any the happier, but rolled up their sleeves and brought out the long thick ropes with solid iron hooks attached at one end. With no further ado, the galley in distress was pulled parallel with the Majestueuse, so that the larboards of both ships leaned against one another. As they touched, a fiendish howl split the silence hanging heavy over the waters, coming from the aft section of the deserted ship. It sounded as if from a hunter’s horn, only deeper, louder and fearsome.
Terror-stricken, the sailors aboard the Majestueuse dropped the ropes and stepped back from the portside.
‘This is a Devil’s ship,’ one of them cried out. ‘Cut the ropes, damn it! Cut’em, men, or our souls will join her drifting in the fog!’
But it was too late. As the howl of the horn faded away, another one, mightier, followed – a war-cry coming from dozens of men. The sails covering the ghost-ship’s deck were swept aside; the doors of the aft-castle opened. From all directions men streamed out of their hiding places onto the deck and over the railings, pouring over the Majestueuse and its bewildered crew.
Pierre Grimoard watched the attack from the aft-deck in total disbelief. This was no galley in distress. It was an ambush – and a cunning one to boot. Sea-robbers lurking in the fog – scores of them were now onboard his ship. He had not even had a chance to react, to shout any command to his men. He unsheathed his saber, as he saw two of the pirates climbing the stairs towards him, each of them clutching a small axe. Pierre made a short step back with his right foot, ready to lunge a deadly blow. The first man rushed to him with a bestial roar. Pierre swiftly swung on his left foot and dodged the coup. The pirate could not help stooping, under his impetus. Without hesitating for a second, Pierre brought his saber down onto the man’s back. Muffled crack and the desperate cry of the slain were heard as steel met with spine. Pierre lifted his weapon, turning to face his other attacker. Too late – all that the captain saw was the heavy blade of the small axe flying towards his head. Darkness covered his sight – his scull had been split.
Balthasar Cossa could hardly breathe in. His body was spinning around the deck of the assaulted ship. The short sword in his right hand slashed flesh and bone with each swing, while the stiletto in his left penetrated bodies all around. He was involved in a murderous dance, bringing death to every poor soul that happened to stand in his way.
Balthasar had been expecting the collision with the large galley hidden under the staircase of the aft-deck of his ship. A hunter’s horn in hand, he had been waiting for the fish to take the bait. All had gone exactly according to his plan. The scouts he had positioned on the cliffs at the northern coast of Sardinia had come down to report they had spotted the three-mast hailing from Provence. The plan had taken shape in Balthasar’s head as the fog had been slo
wly wrapping the Strait of Bonifacio, where his ship had been anchored. It had looked like a shot in the dark, but he had been resolute enough to give it a try. He had striven to excel, to go one better than his older brothers. He had taken part in their raids, followed their lead long enough. The time had come for him to become a leader.
The plan had worked out perfectly well. Balthasar’s galley had been directed towards the carefully advancing cargo ship with a surprising precision. The whole crew had been patiently lying low, so that nobody be seen on deck, waiting for his signal. The howl from the horn had had a terrifying effect – it had sounded as if coming from the depths of hell, carried by and reverberating in the fog. The Provencal crew had been taken by surprise. But the battle was yet to be won. Balthasar’s men were outnumbered and the slight advantage they had gained thanks to the sudden assault was quickly lost, as soon as the opposition seized their weapons.
Balthasar had been among the first to jump over the railings and onboard the Majestueuse. Now, he was in the midst of the panic-stricken sailors. Fortunately, there was someone to watch his back. Yandra had followed him into the fight, dressed in the same way as the other pirates – in tight woolen pants and a white shirt with a leather jerkin over it. Her long black hair was neatly tucked under a black kerchief. She clutched a saber in one hand and a small battle axe in the other. The instrument was very common among pirates – a useful tool when at sea and extremely efficient in fight.
The skirmish did not last long. The pirates had caught the Provencal crew off guard. By now most of them were lying sprawled on the deck – either killed or heavily wounded. Others had surrendered and were being tied up to the railings. As he watched the dread on their faces, Balthasar had thought that the killed sailors would give up fighting, once his men had assaulted the ship. But pirates were not a diplomatic breed. Once there was precious loot at stake, they turned into rapacious beasts.
‘Captain Cossa,’ he heard someone calling him. He turned towards the forecastle of the galley. One of his men stood over the trap-door leading to the lower decks, where the cargo was usually stored. The man was trying to suppress a shock. ‘There is nothing down there, captain!’
‘Nothing?’ Balthasar almost yelled at him. ‘What do you mean, there is nothing?’
He paced to the trap-door and kneeled over it to take a look inside. Another two of his men were in the store-room, holding torches to illuminate the place. It was completely void.
Balthasar stood back up, giving away a loud curse.
‘This does not make any sense!’ he said more to himself than to the others. ‘Why would a ship like this travel these waters empty? Why not wait for the fog to clear away rather than run a risk in the strait, if not in a hurry?’
As he was speaking, pacing around the deck, the door of the aft castle of the galley opened. A soldier came out slowly, cautiously. Two of the pirates rushed towards him. The soldier extended his hand and threw a fauchard down at his feet.
‘Stop!’ Balthasar commanded. His men stopped dead in their tracks.
A man stepped out of the door behind the soldier, with another two guards in train. He cut an odd, stumped figure, among the soldiers in plain blue-and-white surcoats. Their keep wore a long brown mantle revealing exquisite garments underneath. A golden crucifix hung on his neck against a red coat, richly embroidered with gold-lace.
The man stood in front of the soldiers, observing the carnage on the deck. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but had the grace of a youth. Dozens of eyes were riveted on him, as if they were watching the resurrected Christ walking out of his sepulcher. His blue eyes, hidden under the bulge of a wrinkled forehead, fixed on Balthasar – the only man onboard who looked as determined as him. Then he spoke softly:
‘Are you looking for cargo, captain?’ His question bore a hint of irony, his voice – self-confident. Then, the man spread his hands to reveal even more of the splendour of his apparel. ‘If so, I suppose that you are looking for me!’
‘And who are you?’ Balthasar asked, still rooted to the spot in bewilderment.
The answer came soft-spoken:
‘I am the Pope.’
‘The Pope?’ I asked the professor, puzzled. ‘Is that Pope John XXIII, the author of the sonnet?’
‘No,’ replied the Director, ‘this is one of his predecessors – Boniface IX. You see, at the end of the fourteenth century, the popes leave Rome, where strong opposition has been building up against them, and move to Avignon, in the County of Provence. Pope Gregory XI is the first to return to Rome in 1377. However, Popes continue to be elected in Avignon, which leads to the so-called Western Schism - one Pope enthroned in the Vatican and another in the Palais des Papes in Avignon, both claiming to be the rightful pontiff.’
‘And what was Pope Boniface doing on board that ship sailing from Provence?’ I asked, trying to fit this episode in the story implicating Balthasar Cossa, Pope John XXIII, and the sonnet I had come across by chance.
‘When Balthasar and his men ambush the Provencal galley in the Strait of Bonifacio –mind the coincidence of names! – Boniface is returning from a secret meeting. He travels to Provence in secret, and so he intends to return thence. He meets with the Count of Provence, probably in an attempt to gain his support against his rival the Pope in Avignon.’
‘And what happens next aboard the ship commandeered by Cossa?’
‘Well,’ the professor sighed, ‘history is silent about it. All that is known for sure is that Boniface returns to Rome. It appears that he manages to strike a bargain with Balthasar over his release and transportation to Italy.’
‘In exchange for what?’ I asked.
‘In exchange for a promise to grant him a clerical dignity – this I am certain about. He offered him to put down the saber and return to land as a servant of God.’
‘And Balthasar accepts?’ I could not believe such a turn in the story.
‘Do you know what the name of Balthasar means?’ the Director answered with a surprising question. I did not. ‘It comes from the name of the ancient Phoenician god Ba’al and its literal meaning is ‘God protect the king.’ It may also be translated as ‘God protect the priest,’ for in ancient societies kings are also the high priests of their subjects. As I have already said, nothing in the life of Balthasar Cossa is left undone. Have you forgotten what he is a student of back in Bologna?’
‘How appropriate that is.’ I agreed. This story sounded like a folklore tale where nothing happens by chance, I mused. Still, I did not doubt the truthfulness of the Director’s narration. The professor went on:
‘Yes, he must have accepted the offer. But he does not instantly give up piracy. He will have taken the promise of the corrupt Pope with a pinch of salt. If one is to survive, let alone rise in the depraved world of the clergy, one needs to have solid wealth in hand. That is why he sets sail for one last bold venture.’