The Last Crusaders: Blood Red Sea (13 page)

‘Worse,’ said Stanley with a grin. ‘It’s a worldwide pig’s arse of a muddle. But if we fail, make no mistake. We will all be slaves of the Turk.’

‘So,’ said Nicholas, ‘if the Ottoman Empire attacks Cyprus – a Venetian possession – Venice will
have
to join the war against them.’

Stanley looked the picture of innocence. ‘Wicked tongues say that the warmongering knights have worked behind the scenes, spreading certain rumours, to
encourage
the Turks to attack Cyprus. But of course this is nothing but malicious slander.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘What you really want,’ he said, ‘is for the Turks to attack Cyprus, but not to succeed in capturing it.’

‘That,’ said Stanley, ‘would be ideal. We want Cyprus to be another Malta.’

‘But there are problems,’ said Smith. ‘The locals, for one.’

‘The Greeks hate the Turks, don’t they?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately they also hate their current Venetian overlords, who have taxed them ruthlessly. As Eastern Orthodox, they also have little love for Rome.’

‘Utter pig’s arse,’ muttered Hodge.

‘I know that Suleiman is dead, at least,’ said Nicholas.

‘So he is. Died campaigning in Hungary back in 1566. His son succeeded him, a fool they call Selim the Sot. But an empire as mighty as the Ottoman Empire goes on, even when ruled by a fool. The true brains are the ministers and viziers. One Mehmet Sokollu, Grand Vizier, is every bit as cunning as any ruler in Christendom – probably more so. He is loyal to the memory of Suleiman the Magnificent, however much he may scorn the son Selim. And with their North African and Arabian allies, the Ottoman dream remains the same. The conquest of all Europe for Islam.’

‘After Malta,’ said Nicholas, ‘I thought they would never come again. They lost so many.’

‘They can afford to lose so many,’ said Smith. ‘Their empire stretches from the gates of Vienna to Aden, from the Maghreb to the Persian Gulf. Beyond that, there are more Islamic empires. The Persian itself, and the Mughal Empire of India. Christendom is a little nest of squabbling princedoms in comparison. Once again we must unite to fight them, if we are to have any hope. But once again, we are failing.’

‘The Florentines, Genoese and Venetians are bound to each other only by mutual hatred,’ said Stanley. ‘No one trusts France, and all envy and fear Spain her silver and gold. King Philip’s Spain is rich beyond dreams with the wealth of the Indies, which keeps her great galleons well armed and ready, and yet at the same time – behold, I give you a mystery – Spain is utterly bankrupt. Thirty pieces of silver ruined Judas. Thirty million pieces of silver, and Philip is ruined as badly, so they say. It would take a better financial brain than mine to explain this to you.’

‘A wise professor of Salamanca,’ said Smith, ‘has tried to argue that the more silver and gold there is in a kingdom, the less it is worth. So the price of a loaf of bread increases accordingly, and the people are poorer. Hence Spain’s troubles.’ A very faint smile showed through Smith’s thick black beard. ‘God is telling us something here, perhaps. About true worth.’

‘A loaf of bread’s worth a loaf of bread,’ said Hodge stubbornly.

‘Friend Hodge,’ said Stanley, ‘you are an English empiricist to the marrow, and could teach those professors of Salamanca a thing or two, I do not doubt.’

‘I could an’ all.’

Stanley waved his hand over the table. ‘But back to our map here. In the north, Protestant England watches and waits. Perhaps her days of glory will yet come. In Germany, Catholic and Lutheran princes slaughter each other’s peasantry at will, and in Hungary the wind-blown marches are stripped bare and left vulnerable, where those splendid Hussar horsemen used to ride out defending the Danube valley and the whole eastern flank of Europe against the Turk. The flower of Hungarian chivalry was destroyed at Mohacs forty years ago, where Christian skulls now lie whitening on the plain. The regiments of Janizaries – the world’s finest foot soldiers still, do not doubt it – could be back at the gates of Vienna in weeks.’

‘Then the situation is desperate,’ said Nicholas.

‘Of course!’ said Stanley, slapping him on the back. ‘It is always desperate! That is why we sail for Cyprus, and prepare for siege by the Turk. Spain promises help, but none will come.’

Smith touched the hilt of his sword. ‘Yet the knights will go, as always.’

A servant brought them dishes of almonds, dates and salted biscuits.

‘There is still another twist in what Hodge here calls our current pig’s arse of a muddle,’ said Stanley. He devoured a salt biscuit whole. ‘Not only do the Cypriot Greeks detest Venice, but the Venetian commander there is no Jean de la Valette.’

Smith said, ‘In the heart of Cyprus stands the well-fortified capital, Nicosia. But its commander is one Niccolo Dandolo, and what we have heard of him does not inspire confidence. And then down on the east coast, facing across the sea to the Holy Land itself, is the ancient port of Famagusta, also well fortified by the Venetians.’

‘Famagusta’s governor is Marc’antonio Bragadino,’ said Smith, ‘of an old Venetian family. We hear he is a strong commander, at least. But as for Dandolo . . .’ He shook his head.

Nicholas said softly, ‘If only we still had Jean de la Valette.’

That superb old warrior, who led the knights through the Siege of Malta, to final, unbelievable victory. Now laid to rest in the new capital city of Malta which he founded: Valletta, named in his honour. That noble old man. Nicholas often grieved that he would never see him again. But of course he would be near eighty now
if he still lived, an implausible age for one who followed a life of such striving and danger. And all men must die. The thing was to live rightly, nobly, and with honour. And by God, La Valette did that.

‘His successor, Piero del Monte,’ said Nicholas. ‘Is he a good Master?’

‘He is a Grand Master,’ said Stanley.

Nicholas rolled his eyes.

Stanley laughed. ‘He is a fine new leader, as bold and honourable as we could wish. But his place is at Malta, not leading an army to Cyprus. And then of course there is the new Holy Father in Rome.’

Yes, Nicholas knew of him. Pius IV died in the Borgia Tower, back in 1565. The cardinals wintered on it, and when the smoke signals went up in January 1566, their choice was one Michele Ghisleri, aged sixty-one, born a mere shepherd boy. He took the name Pius V. Known to be simple and devout, he wore a hairshirt instead of silk, mistrusted worldly power and despised wealth. It was said he didn’t even keep a mistress.

‘A story goes,’ said Smith, ‘that immediately he was raised to the See of Rome, his family came to him expecting all kinds of favours and preferments. He graciously received them, and told them he was sure that being related to the Pope would be honour enough. They left in some pique.’

‘And he has excommunicated Elizabeth,’ said Nicholas.

‘In no uncertain terms. He denounced her as a “slave of wickedness”.’ Stanley nodded. ‘Yes, he is fierce, but he is incorruptible, and he is the Holy Father we need in this desperate hour. A mild-mannered Elijah would hardly have dealt aright with the priests of Baal.’

‘And he preaches a new crusade,’ said Smith. ‘He dreams of a Holy League of all Christendom, and works and prays tirelessly to inspire it. Not enough for him that Christendom should be defended, Cyprus be saved from the Turk. He already refers to the Mediterranean by its old name, the Roman Sea, and dreams that Hagia Sophia might again resound to Christian choirs, and the Cross return to the Holy Land.’

‘But it has been a while now since the Pope himself led his armies into battle personally,’ said Stanley. ‘What is needed is a Christian
military leader who can unite and inspire all the squabbling forces of Europe.’

Smith stirred. ‘And that man may just be, as some say – the bastard Don John. Implausible as it may seem.’

Nicholas looked up and coughed.

‘Though he may be, in his own words, a velveted fop and whoremonger—’

Nicholas coughed more loudly and bulged his eyeballs at Smith.

‘—looked on with contempt by all the crowned heads of Europe. Even his own half-brother Philip does not want him attaining glory. But I think that if that vain and coxcombed head could raise itself for one moment from the plump bosoms of his whores, he might just yet—’

Smith became aware of something. A figure stepped out of the deepening shadows.

Don John had been listening for the last minute or more, silent in his gold-braided lambskin cabin slippers. Behind him was the venerable Don Luis de Requesens, looking anxious.

Smith stood, and Don John stood eyeball to eyeball with him though only half his width.

‘Pray continue,’ he said softly. He was quite expressionless but for a certain blaze in his eyes, six inches from Smith’s. ‘Don’t mind me.’

Smith did not flinch. He had faced worse in his time than an offended prince. ‘He might just yet . . . pull us all together.’

It was impossible to tell Don John’s mood. His gaze flicked between Smith and Stanley. ‘Which is the better swordsman of you two?’

‘Smith, by a whisker,’ allowed Stanley. ‘Though he’s a clumsy great oaf in every other respect. The gallant Hodge here delivers a hefty blow, and the thin lad Ingoldsby knows a trick or two.’

‘I may tup my social inferiors,’ said Don John, ‘I do not duel with them.’

‘My father was a Knight of St John, as you are,’ said Nicholas angrily.

‘I am a Knight Commander Grand Cross,’ snapped Don John, ‘and of the royal blood.’

‘My father always said there are noble births and noble hearts, and the two do not always coincide.’

Don John smiled thinly. The lad had fine spirit, and now his blood was up.

‘Stand!’ Don John moved out on to the deck.

Nicholas’s anger abated. ‘It has been a long day, Your Excellency, and I am very weary.’

‘Not as weary as you were at times upon the walls of Malta.’

Nicholas looked rueful. ‘That is true. But I still don’t see why I should be punished for my comrade Smith’s . . . intemperate speech.’

Don John had already drawn his Toledo blade and was swishing it through the night air. Then he vaulted lightly on to the gangway and thrust once or twice at the standard post.

‘To duel with a prince of the Habsburgs is hardly a punishment,’ he said. ‘More of an honour. Then come, let us exchange a few
passados
.’

‘Sire,’ said Stanley, ‘the moon is thin, and the stern lanterns give barely the light of a glow-worm. It is dangerous to duel in such darkness.’

‘He is right, Your Excellency,’ put in Don Luis de Requesens. ‘Do you think this is entirely—’

‘Danger,’ said Don John –
cut, cut, guard, thrust
– ‘is the salt and pepper upon the tedious meat of life.’ He raised his blade and kissed the cold steel to his lips. ‘And absolute fearlessness is the surest sign of a true nobleman . . . along with eighteen different varieties of pox.
In guardia!
’

‘Give me your sword,’ hissed Nicholas.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Stanley quietly, standing between him and the table where the sword still lay. ‘Though he’s still wearing his cabin slippers, and I’ve never seen him wield a sword before, he’ll have had the finest fencing masters in Europe since the day he first walked.’

‘He’ll not kill me.’

‘What if he divests you of an eye?’

‘I’ve got another.’

The boy moved with his usual lightning speed, ducking under Stanley’s outstretched arm, snatching the sword from the table and spinning away before Stanley had time to stop him.

It was the first time he had held a good blade in years. He swished and whipped it, felt the weight and the counterweight, the fine balance, and the sinewy strength in his lean arm. How quickly
it came back. And the thrill too, the fierce delight. He began to feel alive again. As if the darkness were clearing and a hot sun burning instead.

He drew up before Don John.

‘Good fellow,’ said the Prince. ‘Ingoldsby, eh? There’s gold in that name.’

‘That there is,’ said Nicholas.

In the shadows behind them, around the mainmast and along the side walkways above the sleeping rowers’ heads, the
Real’s
mariners had gathered to watch the fight. Sicilians, Sardinians, Marseillans, Andalusians. It was forbidden for them to look the royal prince in the eye, but they might be quiet spectators at this lunatic dancing duel.
Noblemen
, they muttered among themselves. All loons and inbred crackbrains.

The two swordsmen made a quick bow, and then all was a flurry of flashing blades and metallic rings. Their skill was astonishing. Neither Nicholas nor Don John dealt much force, but such was their speed that their blades were a blur. It was evident immediately from their different styles that Stanley had spoken the truth. The prince fenced with a kind of schooled and fluid perfection, showing mastery of every style, every move and stroke. The unexpected
riverso
, the dancing
schivar di vita
, the flamboyant and frankly pointless
guardia alta
, sword held high above his head like a matador about to slay the bull.

But more important than this flamboyant display, there was a steady blaze in his eyes which showed he meant to win. Yet Nicholas, schooled only in the bloody hand-to-hand fighting on the walls of Malta, and whatever backstreet skirmishes he had survived since then, matched him cut and thrust. It was his speed which saved him. He could see each blow coming in and block it without any apparent difficulty. But that speed of movement could not be long maintained on so still and sultry a night. They broke off after a mere minute or so, both panting and heated.

‘More wine!’ called Don John. ‘Well watered!’

They threw back their goblets and tossed them empty to Smith and Stanley.

‘In the name of Mohammed and his thirteen fat wives,’ said
Don John, slashing and flexing his blade again, eyeing its edge, ‘but you make quite a satisfying opponent.’

They resumed. Thrust, parry, thrust, parry, lock blades, apart. And then Nicholas, roughly schooled as he was, made a half-turn and executed an entirely unorthodox blow that succeeded only by virtue of surprise. His blade cut Don John across the upper right arm, a long though shallow cut. Don John stopped and took a backward step. He did not glance down for a second at the wound, nor clutch it with his hand, look pale and aghast, or even remotely surprised. He stood and bled gently upon his white satin shirt, and raised his eyebrows.