by J A Deriu
Pierre’s stupor was interrupted by escalating sounds from outside. His body began to stir. His heartbeats quickened. He looked up to squint into the sunlight streaming into the cell from the high windows. The sounds and languages were like those of the morning. Ernest rubbed at his eyes and kicked out his legs. “What is the noise?”
Pierre did not reply, fearful that there was to be a second show.
“Shall I look out?” Ernest asked. “Will you lift me?”
Pierre shook his head. “I don’t want to see. Not even through your eyes.”
The cell door was shoved open. A guard’s head looked inside, indistinct in the shadows. He dropped inside a flask and bread. The door closed. They shuffled over. Pierre picked up the dirtied bread and tore it into two parts. He handed half to Ernest, who wiped his lips after a long swig from the flask. They chewed and gulped water until no further drop came from the flask and then picked at their laps for breadcrumbs.
“They would not be feeding us if they intended us for the same fate as the Templars,” Ernest plainly said.
The noise was resounding from outside. “I am starving. I would have eaten my shoe,” Pierre said without mirth. He looked up at the window and the brightness of the sunlight. He longed for it to be the dark of night again. For some reason, he felt more peaceful under the stars.
They waited quietly for the noise to have its consequence. The sounds from the courtyard were fiercer than the sounds from the morning. The guards outside made noise, clanging doors, shouting to each other, cluttering along the hallway. They watched the door. Ernest stood up to piss in a corner. Pierre listened to the trickle against the stone wall. The door opened. It was the same guards from the morning, tense and bristling. One of them barked a command. Their leather jerkins were polished and shining, their beards neatly trimmed. The two behind menacingly held clubs. Pierre and Ernest sluggishly stood. The fat chief guardsman came in, growling. The other guards stood back out of his way. He inspected them with an impatient, angry look across his face.
Pierre placed a hand on the shoulder of Ernest. “If this is it –”
The fat man slapped a gloved hand across Pierre’s chest and yelled an angry word. Then the guards signaled for them to move. They trudged along the stinking corridor. Pierre glanced at Ernest. His face was placid.
Pierre half opened his mouth, wondering when he should begin to plead for their lives. He closed it, fearful of a whack. He shaded his eyes as they were marched out of the prison and into the courtyard. A clamor assailed him. He squinted and expected the sight of the bloodthirsty locals demanding more heads. Instead, they were preoccupied, like in the marketplace, haggling with one another and indifferent to what must have been the pitiful sights of Pierre and Ernest. The fat guard barged a group out of the way, who complained vigorously in return, waving their hands at his face. They were wearing multi colored robes and had the shrewd eyes of businessmen. They were viewing a motor vehicle. A boy was shining its hubcaps so that his face was mirrored. There was a man in an expensive-looking caftan entreating the others. They jested and waved fingers at him. A group of children sat bunched. One of them looked up at Pierre with hopeful eyes as they passed, quickly turning away when he saw the prison guards.
The smell of cooking teased him. A vivid collection of birds was tied to a rack, squawking at all that passed. They arrived at a wooden set of steps. He thought that these were the ones Ernest had described. A guard used his baton to force him upward. He saw the bloodstains across the boards. He still could not find the effort to talk. Ernest said something, and one of the guards whacked him across the back. The little man cried out.
It was crowded on the stage. Pierre knocked into others as he was led by the guards. They were abruptly stopped and shoved backward. He landed on a wooden bench with Ernest next to him. The guards disappeared back into the crowd. He looked at Ernest, who looked back at him dumbfounded. Some children chasing each other raced past them. Pierre looked on his other side. He was sitting next to a woman, her face shyly turned away from him. He turned back to Ernest.
“Are we free to leave?” the little man asked.
Pierre saw the sleeveless young men standing at the edges of the stage, at least four of them on the perimeter. Their arms were crossed and their muscles showed. They were wearing purple tunics and lighter-purple turbans. Long, curved swords hung from their belts. All of them watched the stage like predators. “I don’t think so.”
Ernest had his hand pulled by a short, rough-looking local. He turned it around and looked at his palm and fingers and complained to another local standing next to him. Ernest yanked his hand back. The locals laughed. An old man reached forward and with a wrinkled hand, touched the face of the young woman next to Pierre.
He looked up to see a brute of a man, one eye covered by an eye patch, standing and examining him as if he was on display in a store. He radiated malice and was restlessly rubbing his hands together. He pointed at Pierre. The fat guardsman, his hands holding his belly, appeared at his side for a word in his ear. They both considered Pierre and exchanged short sentences. The guardsman at first dramatically shook his head and then nodded after bursts of words.
Pierre put his hand to his mouth. “This is a slave market. We are being traded,” he whispered.
“I’ve heard of such damned places. Saint Hilarius.”
“Why are you saying that? You have never said that.”
“I don’t know.”
The fat man with practiced skill slashed a long cane at them. The blow whacked Ernest across his shoulder and stung Pierre’s arm. The fat man growled at them to be silent. The roguish-looking man laughed. Pierre rubbed his hurting arm. The fat man held up the cane, threatening to strike another blow. At that moment Pierre saw the face of the unveiled woman. She was peering from over the shoulder of the guardsman. Her long hair blew behind her. He remembered her elegant face from the market. He tried to hold her look. Her eyes were like those of what he imagined an ancient Egyptian goddess would be. She turned away. Pierre’s head sagged. The ugly men had not seen her, and they continued their sinister chatter. The eye patched man, made movements as though doing hard labor with a tilt of his head to the two of them. The fat guard nodded agreement and prepared his cane for another swish.
The lady came back. She had a man with her who had a large egg-shaped head, colored like an olive, and bulging eyes. The elegant, high-cheekboned lady elbowed him for action. He interrupted the two villains with a raised finger in a firm, businesslike manner. He wore a fez that looked too small for his head. They glared at him with annoyance, interrupted in their planning. He was not perturbed. He had an affable smile, and soon they were in discussion, their eyes lifting in moments to involve Pierre. The lady’s eyes flicked from Pierre to her companion, full of intense engagement. The eye patched man scratched at his chin and grunted before turning to look elsewhere. There was a faint smile on the edge of the lady’s lip, and she moved away. The egg headed man grinned at Pierre. He reached forward and touched Pierre’s shoulder with a fleshy arm that smelled perfumed. He spoke a language Pierre did not understand.
“I am from Fugger Corp,” Pierre said. “We were taken by pirates.”
“Ah, English, you speak. I am surprised. I thought you a Slav,” the man said. “I can speak some English.”
There was a flurry of activity next to him. The eye patched man was back. His arms were scarred and dirt covered. He had lifted Ernest from his seat, yanked by his collar. The man placed a tough hand at the back of Ernest’s neck and prepared to pull the shocked little man away. “Wait!” Pierre cried. The egg headed man placed a soft hand at his chest, and his eyes said to not interfere. Ernest was tugged away, and he looked back to Pierre. “He is my manservant. We can’t be separated.”
“You have a manservant?” the man asked, confused.
Pierre squeezed his arms. The man shouted after them, fr
iendly but authoritative. He must have been a man of some status, as the eye patched man stopped and returned for a conversation, in which they used their hands to express themselves. The fat guardsman joined in. The two villainous types seemed satisfied and departed, leaving Ernest and the egg headed man. “Look,” he said, lifting his hands, “I have purchased you both.” Pierre saw the lady in the background watching keenly. The man smiled, coupled with jolly laughter. “I have saved you both from the ship wreckers. Terrible work. You will be grateful to Alex Kamondo.” He slapped them both on the back. “Come, my men are over here. You look to be in want of food.”
They followed him dumfounded. He led in front, greeting and hollering to others as he moved through the crowds. The lady joined at his side without turning around. He had young, well-groomed, and disciplined servants who escorted them, dressed in the same orange as their master. They stopped at a canteen for water. Pierre could see the tops of ships in the distance. The streets were paved, had thin trees either side, and were overflowing with people. They stopped once more at a fruit stand. Alex discerningly looked over the stalls. In a swift movement, he handled some oranges and tossed them, in a high loop, back to Pierre and Ernest. They caught them with both hands. “Eat,” he said.
They ripped off the peels, letting the skin fall as they moved.
“Saint Hilarius, this is beautiful,” Ernest said, the juice dripping from his chin.
“Is that going to be your thing now?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
They walked up a long incline, rising to a hill that was spotted with villas looking over the sea. Alex paused at the base of steps and took long breaths. Pierre assumed the lady was his wife. Her head turned slightly, enough to see him, and he wondered how he looked.
Alex looked back at them. “I am getting too old for this. Is my English good? Lucky for you I made the trip today.” He pointed to the top of the hill. “Still some way to go, I am afraid.” He took a long breath, filling his robust frame.
The party moved upward, passing thick-walled estates with colorful chains of flowers dropping over the walls. The air was filled with the scents from the lush gardens. Gates were opened, and more of the orange-clad servants scurried to bow as the master entered his estate.
They stood next to a splashing three-tiered fountain. Alex stopped to make a bawdy joke to a maid, touching her cheek. “Come, come.” He waved to them.
He led them out of the courtyard. The gates heaved closed behind them. Servants opened the doors to a large room. The shutters of the wide windows were open, allowing a wind to sway wall hangings and flutter the flames of lamps. The azure of the ocean was the backdrop. “I was not looking for servants today. However, here we are. How do you come to speak English?”
“We are from the Metropolis,” Pierre answered.
“The Metropolis,” Alex repeated. “The little man too?”
Pierre nodded. Alex looked uncertain of what to say, which seemed unnatural for him. “You jest,” he finally said. “No, you don’t, do you?”
“We were taken by pirates. Where are we?”
“You are in the Sultanate of Sarawak, loyal to the Emperor of the Mughals. And I am Alex of the Merchant House of Kamondo from Phanar itself, in the heart of the precious stone that is the great Konstantinople, from where all distance is measured, in the shadow of the sultan’s imperial palace. I am a servant of the sultan of the Ottomans, conducting his business on these shores, which my family has done for centuries.” A servant came forward holding a silver tray with a mound of prunes. Alex grabbed a handful. “Eat, please. Your fortunes have improved dramatically, from the hands of pirates and almost into the hands of cruel slavedrivers, to, on this beautiful day, you were purchased by the House of Kamondo.” He smiled.
Pierre felt a prune and tasted it on his lips. Ernest gulped a handful. “We are bankers employed by the Fugger Corp. Our corporation would be desperate for our return,” Pierre emphasized.
“You are from the Metropolis. It is a shame. Travel is forbidden to those lands.”
Chapter Five
Her boot sunk deep into the wet sand. The seawater that swelled into its opening was warm but uncomfortable against her leg. The local children watched from the beach. Clavdia wondered what they were thinking. Moments ago, they would have been carefree, wearing their singlets and shorts, doing what they did in the low, fragile waves, and under the stark-blue sky. Then they would have stopped as one or two of them called out and pointed to the ships on the horizon. A dozen ships suddenly filled their tranquil bay. Smaller boats rapidly disgorged from the larger ships. Those boats were crammed with what, to them, would have been the strange-looking men and women wearing the gray uniforms with black crosses on the fronts of their tunics. The boats moved rapidly to the shore. Many arrived at the same time. Their hulls dug into the sand.
She stopped farther along the beach. The water still wetting her boots. She observed the bay and how defendable it looked. There were clifftops looking down over the waters. No cannons were located there now, but if there were, all of the ships would be in danger.
The Templars moved in loose formations, some tense, handling their rifles, their heads swiveling like gulls. Others relaxed, chatting, taking long breaths. Greta was waiting on the top of a dune. Her hair was in a long golden braid that came from behind her head, curled around her neck, and hung down her tunic. She squinted, the sun in her eyes. She saw Clavdia, straightened, and completed a Templar salute, holding her tightly closed fist down and in front of her. “Good morning, Lord Commander.”
“Morning, Captain.”
Greta smiled at the sound of her new title. “Uneventful landing so far, Lord Commander.”
They were within a short distance of the town. It looked run-down. Boats waiting to be repaired were at the start of the path. Dwellings farther along were missing tiles or glass in the windows. She saw the lean figure of Captain Knight Miles among a group of Templars talking to the locals. The Templars had their rifles across their backs and their long daggers sheathed. Miles looked across and saw her. She followed the path to the group. They saluted as she neared. The locals looked at her, confused. They were thin and short with leatherlike skin the color of night. They looked back at the Captain Knight with worried eyes. “Lord Commander, this has not gone as they promised,” Miles said. Her arrival shaped the group into a semicircle as they pressed back.
“What is it, Captain?”
His face was tanned from the sun at sea, which they had all been looking into for days. His cap was pulled tightly down. Dust goggles hung at his neck. “These men are saying that not all have agreed.” She showed the group her serious face. “They said there’d be no opposition to the landing,” Miles continued and frowned at the townsfolk. Gunshots could be heard in the distance, as if to echo what Miles was saying. “As you can hear, their promise was not good, Lord Commander.”
“Was not the bargain made, Captain, that we would land unopposed?”
“It was, Lord Commander, but this lot cannot be trusted.”
She looked behind him, followed the coastline that lifted to a pinnacle in the distance and then jutted out into the water. Atop this towered a rectangular brick citadel watching over the bay.
“There’s local militia barricaded themselves inside,” the captain said. “They’re shooting out. Few of ours have been close. Nobody hurt though.”
“What do these chaps say?” Clavdia asked nodding her head at the locals.
“They say it’s not their fault. The leader of the militia is pigheaded.”
“What do you think, Captain?”
He grimaced. “Hard to say, Lord Commander. What do we know of these people and their ways?” He turned to look at the citadel. “Going to be hard to take.”
“Yet we must. If we are going to consolidate our forces here, we can’t have an enemy stronghold in our m
iddle, taking shots whenever they feel.”
“Cannons?”
“How many can we land?”
“It will be hard, Lord Commander.”
She looked away from the citadel toward the beach and the large number of Templars that were grouping. Their masses of gray were becoming thick and blocking out the pale-yellow sand. She stared at them for a long moment, her lungs filled with the salty air. They moved with purpose to establish the beachhead. A splash of light blue moved among the scene. The Janissaries of Tobias Deen had retained their uniforms, and while mostly clinging together, some had spread among the Templars.
“There’s no haste, Captain. Let’s think about it.” She took off her cap. “Send those men away,” she said, nodding at the locals. She looked at the landscape with a strategic view. It had become a habit. How to defend and how the enemy would view the same land. They needed complete control of this beachhead. There would be thousands and thousands of Templars coming. She fretted over food – not her own. She would be all right with stale bread. She needed the shipping free of harassment to supply the food for the bulging army. She moved to a stone fence. Miles followed. They both sat down. Young boys appeared before them and offered fruits. “Maybe no haste, but we do need to take that citadel in less time rather than more.”
“I will assemble a force.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out coins. The boys grabbed for them and handed across the fruit. “Peaches,” he said, looking at the plump fruit that filled his hand.
Clavdia accepted hers and tasted it. Her mouth sank deep into it.
“We will have thirty thousand landed by dusk, Lord Commander. They will be camped wherever. There are fields farther down the main road. There will be accommodation in the town also.”
“So many, Miles.”